The Window Poem by Diane di Prima
The Window
you are my bread
and the hairline
noise
of my bones
you are almost
the sea
you are not stone
or molten sound
I think
you have no hands
this kind of bird flies backward
and this love
breaks on a windowpane
where no light talks
this is not time
for crossing tongues
(the sand here
never shifts)
I think
tomorrow
turned you with his toe
and you will
shine
and shine
unspent and underground
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/3/2024 8:02:01 PM # 1.0.0.1119
