Nocturne; the wind noisy
in the winter trees

 

I stand at a lightless fork,
knowing alone
the road to my back,
and that not well.

The wind is noisy in the winter trees.

Which of the roads is mine?
Am I free? I may invoke
the thing that signs a choice,
as though it were a ghost.

The wind is noisy in the winter trees.

 

 

 

 

Language in a Narrow Place;
Titles and first lines