Is it my clothes, my way of walking,
the things I carry in my hand
– a book, a bag with knitting-
the incongruous pink of my shawl
this space cannot hear
or is it my own lack
of conviction which makes
these vistas of desolation,
long hills, the swamps, the barren sand, the glare
of sun on the bone-white
driftlogs, omens of winter,
the moon alien in day-
time a thin refusal
The others leap, shout
Freedom!
The moving water will not show me
my reflection.
The rocks ignore.
I am a word
in a foreign language.
