Is it my clothes, my way of walking,
the thing I carry in my hand
-a book, a bag with knitting--
the incrongruous pink of my shawl
this space cannot hear
or is it my own lack of conviction which makes
these vistas of desolation,
long hills, the swamps, the barren sand, the glare
of sun on the bone-white
driftlogs, omens of winter,
the moon alien in day-
time a thin refusal
