Blades (Section 3, p51)

Golden harvest time.
Stalks condemned and sickles ready. Like executioners.
Boats return laden. Windmills press gray blades together.

— I’m a smalltime trader: I feed my lamp cheap oil and
wear yellowish silk slippers. Why are you calling me?

’Til now I peddled old cloth and gilded candlesticks.
Evenings I’d stop on the bridge and count copper
coins. The bridge white and curved like a whip.
Do I really have to go?
My windows were low and the house not whitewashed.
But it’s sad even at small funerals.
The forest rustles like an inhospitable cathedral. The
unfamiliar psalms severe.

All right, I’ll find myself red travel boots.

     
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