Poems of Elizabeth Bishop
|66.||To Be Written on the Mirror in Whitewash||1/3/2003|
|68.||View of the Capitol from the Library of Congress||1/3/2003|
|69.||Visits to St Elizabeths||1/3/2003|
|70.||While Someone Telephones||1/3/2003|
This is not my home. How did I get so far from water? It must
be over that way somewhere.
I am the color of wine, of tinta. The inside of my powerful
right claw is saffron-yellow. See, I see it now; I wave it like a
flag. I am dapper and elegant; I move with great precision,
cleverly managing all my smaller yellow claws. I believe in the
oblique, the indirect approach, and I keep my feelings to myself.
But on this strange, smooth surface I am making too much
noise. I wasn't meant