Everything has its dwindling.
Everything was dwindling.
The old elegance of my heart became as small
As a coffin carved for a scarab which lived
Three thousand years ago and died of sun
And scalpel, supernatural, but musical.
Half a life ago, when there were blizzards,
We would steal milk from the chimera’s young.
Such small unnatural selections as we are.
The love of me—impossible as a boat made of the orchids
Of Numidia which you keep cased in a bottle
Blown in the shape
Of certain kindnesses.
Things rust. No evidence of birds; no evidence of flight.
I am glad I will not be here when the world is warm.
—Lucie Brock-Broido (1956-2018)
