Poem of Longing- For Igor Lesage

Coming to, count four walls
One, three, the puerile frith
Between opening eyes
And seeing.
Wiry light befalls the
Hemlock

Does glaze the iris
Of my fevered gaze.
There, on the stool
Old ink once was
Speaking
Now quiets itself

In an abstract
Frontispiece.
Shh, stifling wind
The unwavering carnifex
Purloigns the mercy
From ripening

Slavic fruit.
Shh, stifling wind
Wears led
From the ground
In an iron
Mantilla-

To feel restricted is
The wind's secret to life.