The window remained as before. The cold repeats that idiotic essence of rock just as the letters of every word tremble. With a half smile you point out an exit, some stairs. Not even now have you symbols for the dead. I spoke to you of the sea, but the sea is a few square meters, a drill, scarcely out. It was also, for us, the intuition of a daughter breathing in the first moments of a thing. Paper to say broth and rice, months to say pillow. The blue ones call me frozen in a fixed star. Used by permission of Story Line Press. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GUARDIAN ANGEL (A PICTURE AT FANO) by ROBERT BROWNING DARK ROSALEEN by TOMAS COSTELLO THE SPARROW by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR ESCAPE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON EPIGRAM: 118. ON GUT by BEN JONSON THE MAID OF NEIDPATH by WALTER SCOTT |