He sees the swallow roll
on her back without falling.
He listens for her song
day after day.
His plot is narrow,
he wears a heart of clay.
He bolts the window.
Is that breathing
under cloths in the kitchen?
The wooden birds watch all this happen.
The wooden birds fix him with their stare.
His room is too small,
he cannot read the words on the wall.
He peels the turf without the bone,
he shifts the flagstone without falling.
He stands without falling,
sings against night comers.
Hermit of Burrian
posted in: Poetry