I’ll never understand nor want to know
the pity of a song I’ve not yet heard.
Why would I slice my finger on a cracked
pane knowing only a drop of blood
would mark this hand? I am so near
the edge of knowing why one apple
falls before the crop and why a maggot
eats into the core of this one fruit
and not the rest. At night a water-lily
opens up. If I dig my fingers into soil
I’ll find a worm that is afraid of separation
only half a secret remaining.
Sky now reddens to trap night.
In your last letter you used the word beautiful.
From The Wolf No 10 (Summer 2005)