Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.
I feel like I'm floating in plasma I
need a teacher or a lover I need someone
to risk being involved with me. I am so
vain and I am so masochistic. How can they
Francesca Woodman, journal entry
But the suffering is there, continuous,
haunting, like an infection. No relief. A
few hours of peace, and then the gnawing
An old silent pond
A frog jumps into the pond—
Splash! Silence again.
a worm digs silently
into the chestnut.
what I thought were faces
are plumes of pampas grass.
The light of a candle
Is transferred to another candle—
Over the wintry
Forest, winds howl in rage
With no leaves to blow.
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
life's little, our heads
sad. Redeemed and wasting clay
this chance. Be of use.