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Hold the finch who flew into the window
till he can fly. But the window
flies into his face, over and over.
Send warm clothes,
Not knowing the last part
when or how you would die
—in want of
warm clothes, money,
for the last part
(no longer granted your friend)
She took her pocketbook,
her clothes, set out,
no company, no deeds,
a hoard of words.
Lie down, living human thought,
let your anxious glance like a house-cat’s glance
ask in its speechless rising and setting,
Do I concern you? Am I there?
for Osip & Nadezhda Mandelstama
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The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
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