There is only one breath. All are made of the same clay. The light within all is the same.
While snow fell carelessly
floating indifferent in eddies of
rooftop air, circling the black
chimney-cowls,
a spring night entered
my mind through the tight-closed window,
wearing
a loose Russian shirt of
light silk.
For this, then,
that slanting
line was left, that crack, the pane
never replaced.
floating indifferent in eddies of
rooftop air, circling the black
chimney-cowls,
a spring night entered
my mind through the tight-closed window,
wearing
a loose Russian shirt of
light silk.
For this, then,
that slanting
line was left, that crack, the pane
never replaced.