Chapter 2 Chapter One

I am the shadow of the slain sparrow The murderer is the false blue sky of the window pane; I am the smudged gray fluff -- and I Once lived in the reflected sky, spread its wings and soared. From this interior, I will also copy on the window pane My figure, my lamp, an apple in a saucer: With the curtains open at night, I'll make the dark glass appear All the furniture in the room hangs above the grass, What a joy it's snowing outside Obscuring my glimpse of the lawn, piled high Make the bed and chair stand on the white snow Standing on the crystal clear ground outside! Re-shooting the heavy snow: snowflakes flying all over the sky

Slowly and shapelessly, milky and erratic, Against the pale and indifferent larch trees of the day A pale white figure was reflected in the gray light. The light gradually becomes twice as gray and dim The night makes the observer and the landscape one, And the dawn comes, and the glittering frost flowers Looks amazed: whose distance Across the paper-white path from left to right? See through the winter code from left to right: A black dot, an arrow pointing backwards; repeating: Black dots, arrows pointing backwards... pheasant footprints! Beautiful collars, majestic grouse, Foraging for fruit in my backyard.

Could it be the guy from "Sherlock Holmes" Roll back his leather shoes so that the tracks point back? Color makes me happy: so does gray. My eyes are like a camera, it does Photography takes pictures.Whenever I allow, Or at my silently trembling command, Whatever comes into my sight stays there— Indoor scene, or fronds of a hickory tree Or the pointed daggers of frozen drops on the eaves— will be imprinted on the back of my eyelids Stay for an hour or two without going, Go on like this for a while, all I have to do It is to copy and reproduce those leaves with closed eyes,

A view of the interior, with the booty decoration on the eaves. I really don't know how to walk from the lakeside path to the school Why, then, from the lake I recognized our porch, and now though there is no Blocked by trees, I look up, but I can't even No roof in sight either.Maybe the space is unpredictable The change creates a fold or a ditch that replaces the That delicate view, that building in a green neighborhood Log cabin between Goldsworth and Wordssmith. I used to have a favorite young hickory tree there Leaves rich and verdant, worm-eaten and emaciated, Jet black torso.sunset

Bronze its black bark, the leaves Shadows cast loose corollas around it. Now it's thick and strong; it's grown. The white butterfly turns lavender as it flies over its shadow The shade seems to be gently swaying The ghost of my little daughter's swing. The house itself remained unchanged.side hall We have a new decoration.a solarium, and a There are large glass viewing windows with weird chairs on both sides. TV aerials, shaped like giant paper clips, now flicker, instead of the stiff weathervane, often There will appear the innocent and innocent Like a tulle-covered loonie comes to visit

Recount all the programs she has heard; Transition from Go-Catch-Go-Catch to Clear "Du-encircle, break-encircle"; then call out roughly: Come here, Come here, come here; she flicks her tail up, or Indulge in a beautiful all-footed upward leap, but then ("Break-out!") And snapped back to her perch—on the brand new TV antenna. I was just a baby when my parents died. Both are ornithologists.I so often Trying to remember them, so that today I have Thousands of parents.Unfortunately they both Concealed in its own virtue, faded away, But certain words, which I occasionally hear and read,

Such as "a bad heart" has always involved him, And "pancreatic cancer" has always been related to her. A man who believed that the prophecies of the Apocalypse had been fulfilled: a man who collected icy bird nests. This used to be my bedroom, but now it's a guest room. Here, the Canadian maid stored me, I listen to the muffled noise downstairs and pray I wish you all peace and good luck forever, Uncles and aunts, the maid, her niece Adele, The latter had seen the Pope, the characters in the book and God. I was brought up by my dear and eccentric Aunt Maud, She is a poet and a painter,

like those realistic entities Mixed and intertwined with grotesque products and images of perdition. She lived long enough to hear another baby cry.her room We are still the same.Indoor odds and ends The stills that make up her style: the convex glass paperweight Enclosed inside is a view of the lagoon, The book of poems opens on the index page (the moon, Moonrise, Moorish, Moral), that lonely guitar, The skull; and one cut from the local Star Rarity: Red Sox beat Yankees 5-4 In Chapman's Homer, tacked to the door. My god die young.bless god i found Degrading, and those premises are baseless.

No free man needs God; but am I free? I feel how completely nature is with me, How my childish palate loves the gold The batter is half fish and half honey! My childhood picture books are all Colored parchment for our little nesting cages: A purple halo surrounds the moon; a blood-orange sun; rainbows in pairs; and the rare sight That iridescent cloud - beautiful and magical at that moment, The clear sky above the mountains An oval cloud of milky white fragments Reflecting a scene staged in the distant valley Thunderstorms and showers of colorful rainbows— The artistic vibe almost enveloped us.

There is the Wall of Words: the Wall of Night, It is made of trillions of crickets in autumn. impenetrable!halfway up the mountain, I'll stop at the lure of their wild trills. It was the light of Dr. Sutton's house.That's the constellation Ursa Major. A thousand years ago, five minutes Equal to forty ounces of fine sand. Staring at the stars without blinking, the endless past with endless futures: above your head, They close like great wings and you perish. Everyman, dare I say, much happier: he only pisses Look up at the Milky Way in the sky.so now I also walk at my own risk: whipped by branches,

Tripped over a tree stump.Asthmatic, lame and fat, I've never batted a ball or swung a cricket bat. I am the shadow of the slain sparrow, The murderer is the false vista of the windowpane. I have a brain, five faculties (unique), But in other respects I was a bumbling monster. In my sleep I play with other companions, But really envy nothing - only maybe Only envy the miraculous double-button line: bicycle tires On the wet sand, nonchalantly and deftly The trail left by the swing. a subtle pain, It's naughty death that drags and looses, But it's always there, all the way through my body.one day, I just turned eleven and I'm on my knees Watching a wound toy— A tin boy pushing a tin wheelbarrow— round the chair legs, wandering and lost under the bed, Suddenly a burst of sunshine burst into my mind. Then came night.The darkness was solemn and solemn. I feel that my whole body is splitting in all directions through time and space: One foot on top of a mountain, one hand Under the pebbles of the fast-flowing beach, One ear in Italy, one eye in Spain, In the cave, my blood; in the stars, my brain. The muffled sound throbbed in my triad diary; Green dots flashed there in the Pleistocene, A cold shiver ran through my stone age, And all tomorrows are at the ulna of my elbow. A whole winter, every afternoon I fell into a momentary faint. Then the pain disappeared.Gradually fade away. My health started to improve.I even learned to swim. But like a boy who was bullied by a village girl, With his pure tongue quenched her despicable hunger, I was tempted, terrified, and fell, Though old Doctor Coulter proclaims I'm cured, Freed from, he said, mostly growing pains sort of illness, But the doubt lingers, the shame is always there.