Mother at Eighty, an excerpt

I am always trying to get home in dream, but the wind wants a word

    and a fire in the woods shakes its curls

      and I lose my sword which is no sword at all

      but a wand I use as crutch

And finally I see that there is no home

  but I didn’t realize this until they tore down the house

    slashed the trees and left the country without saying goodbye

Abandon hopes for punishment

     The stallion loves the fields of the dead

     but it is the burn of your heart that I hear the most