To the Reader by Denise Levertov
A headache the size of the earth this afternoon. I can’t believe how slow this week has been. I want to be near the sea. But you’ll laugh: I still don’t know how to swim.
To the Reader
As you read, a white bear leisurely
pees, dyeing the snow
and as you read, many gods
lie among lianas: eyes of obsidian
are watching the generations of leaves,
and as you read
the sea is turning its dark pages,
its dark pages.