We wait out the cold, whose will
is more intense than ours.
The heights of Anatolia
rise glacial and bare;
icy slabs of tide
abrade the coast
where there are only stones,
a frozen goat-kid;
piece of cornice, broken
from a marble shrine
looted by the elements
on some promontory of storms;
the sky a vast emporium
of winds that flaunt
dead leagues of hair;
the sea more lethal
than the frigid air.
Winter Island
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103031400584
Свидетельство о публикации №103031400584
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