Lucie Brock-Broido


Here, on the first accidental
Day of winter in the middle
Of the great design & hemp

Of fall, my careless heart
Would be an ice-freaked hall,
Ill-lit, a hostelry, silked & hallowed

All along the sovereign
Persian corridors. I am
Implacable, profoundly influenced

By nothing short of filament
Or pilgrimage & light-piqued
Hours—portalled, saint-freaked, coy.

It will not be given to me, in this
Scurvy life, to speak
This time, of caravans of salt, or joy.