The cloth edge of certainty has shredded down to this: God and love are real, but very far away. If I go to Istanbul, will I return? That is not one of the permitted questions. When I go to Istanbul, how will I bear to return? I could slip into the small streets to the high plain and the Caucasus— It's all alone, the returning, the going. The cloth, a soft holland whose blocks of blue and lemon once cheered me in a skirt, now dries dishes. God and love are very far away, farther even than the mountains in the east.
At least that many buffet here, and I erect as the monument despite my hope to be flattened. If only the winds could take the horse-sobs that heave from me, wind-whipped without the grace of speech; if only these small creatures with amused, skeptical eyes could offer me their chittering, their business of fetching and nesting in the fields. One day I fear the barometer's shift will shatter the surface of the vessel, jarring me into bloody words—catastrophe will fill the strophe then— Unless, winds, you take my speech and rend it into untranslatable rainy hootings.