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Poetry moment
The Sleeping Hollow of His Face WIll Be the Straight Pass of Surrendering
by Lucie Brock-Broido
by Lucie Brock-Broido
One day he wakened from
His Winterstunde of dying,
To the most gold rustling
Of impending end, from
His own head & was,
He said, to be quit
Of reading books & ever
More. A death is portable
Like an abandon,
You can take it anywhere,
A provenance of haemoglobins
& some fate. And from that
Tourneying, that day,
There would be nothing
More to crave & nothing
More to set the heart on,
No cumulus of knowing,
No rubricant of pulse.
Even I know this--
The eventual caesura
Of the hoarding in the sweet
Conservatory of his head.
And then nothing
& then nothing more.
no subject
no subject