All the things has its dwindling.
All the things was dwindling.
The previous class of my coronary heart grew to become as small
As a coffin carved for a scarab which lived
Three thousand years in the past and died of solar
And scalpel, supernatural, however musical.
Half a life in the past, when there have been blizzards,
We’d steal milk from the chimera’s younger.
Such small unnatural alternatives as we’re.
The love of me—not possible as a ship made from the orchids
Of Numidia which you retain cased in a bottle
Blown within the form
Of sure kindnesses.
Issues rust. No proof of birds; no proof of flight.
I’m glad I cannot be right here when the world is heat.
—Lucie Brock-Broido (1956-2018)
