Not the Wound, but What the Wound Implies
Who can say
what the tulips dream
in a hard frost,
the sky as cold
as it is clear
and still unreadable.
Or how pain
decides what stays
in memory, a gift
broken by the time
it reaches us,
silvered, gleaming with age.
Note: These poems are reprinted from Wound is the Origin of Wonder (W.W. Norton)
