Spring Mire
When I place a piece of ice
On the palm of my hand,
I feel a curious intimacy
With myself.
Rain falls
With a sound more harsh
Than my tearing of a letter
Which I must hide from the others.
Though I well know that this world
Is a vault to which my life is entrusted,
I come to grow weary of its musty smell.
On the palm of my hand
I place a bit of sand
And blow upon it,
But wet the sand comforts me not.
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