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Poem	Sometimes the sky's too bright, Or has too many clouds or birds, And far away's too sharp a sun To nourish thinking of him. Why is my hand too blunt To cut in front of me My horrid images for me, Of over-fruitful smiles, The weightless touching of the lip I wish to know I cannot lift, but can, The creature with the angel's face Who tells me hurt, And sees my body go Down into misery? No stopping. Put the smile Where tears have come to dry. The angel's hurt is left; His telling burns. Sometimes a woman's heart has salt, Or too much blood; I tear her breast, And see the blood is mine, Flowing from her, but mine, And then I think Perhaps the sky's too bright; And watch my hand, But do not follow it, And feel the pain it gives, But do not ache.
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