Coming back from images of death
and broken human flesh, I translate
Yeats for fifteen, twenty minutes in
this darkness of the night and the world,
but I have little stamina for Ben Luka,
thoughts wander far and wide, little
patience to gather them and drive
on with a whip to make the work
complete this night. Another
day, after more death and broken
flesh, will see it done, it has waited
a century to be done, it can wait
a day, as thoughts like chill wind
move forlown among bare branches
of the mind's dark, shaken forests.
14.12.2024
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