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There is in every human countenance either a history or a prophecy which must sadden, or at least soften every reflecting observer.

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Osip Mandelstam

My turn shall also come: I sense the spreading of a wing.

Come, Sense, Turn, Turns, Wing, Wings
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The people need poetry that will be their own secret To keep them awake forever, And bathe them in the bright-haired wave of its breathing.

Bathe, Breathing, Forever, People

Take from my palms, to soothe your heart, a little honey, a little sun, in obedience to Persephone's bees. You can't untie a boat that was never moored, nor hear a shadow in its furs, nor move through thick life without fear. For us, all that's left is kisses tattered as the little bees that die when they leave the hive. Deep in the transparent night they're still humming, at home in the dark wood on the mountain, in the mint and lungwort and the past. But lay to your heart my rough gift, this unlovely dry necklace of dead bees that once made a sun out of honey.

Heart, Hive, Home, Life, Moving, Night

Where to start? Everything cracks and shakes, The air trembles with similes, No one world's better than another; the earth moans with metaphors.

Air, Cracks, Everything, Moans, Start, World

Perhaps the whisper was born before lips, And the leaves in treelessness circled and flew, And those, to whom we impart our experience as bliss, Acquire their forms before we do

Acquire, Bliss, Experience, Flew, Forms, Lips

Poetry is the plough that turns up time in such a way that the abyssal strata of time, its black earth, appear on the surface.

Black, Earth, Plough, Way
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