Anne de Mowbray, 8th Countess of
Norfolk Thinks While Waiting
The white of the morning
will not be woken and steamed
from my sheets are
sun stains
that make the light imperfect.
There was the night, I remember every hour,
with the rising of fungus on the windowsill
and the animals outside repeating:
Gott der Vater, Gott der Sohn, Gott der heilige Geist.
My hands are colder now, the rain blows into the room
where I'm hiding with you.
I know, I'm sorry, I'll stop
someday.
Where are my gloves?
I see nothing, just mahogany.
I should die with the midday -
dissolving into its dirtiness and fullness
without a thing in my stomach
but your anger
with all your blond ugliness.
