XVII

2 0 00

XVII

I donвАЩt care

Where the legs of the legs of the furniture are walking to

Or what is hidden in the shadows they stride

Or what would look at me

If the shutters were not shut

Red

a warm colour on the battle-field

Heavy on my knees as a counterpane

Count counter

I counted

the fringe of the towel

Till two tassels clinging together

Let the square room fall away

From a round vacuum

Dilating with my breath