my friend, this body is made of camphor and gopherwood. where it goes, we follow, even into the ark. as the light comes in sideways from the west over damp spring buds and winter trash, the body comes out hesitatingly, and we are shaken, we weep, how is it we feel no one has ever loved us? this protective lamplit left hand hovering over its own shadow on the page seems more loved than we are... and when we step into a room where we expect to find someone, we do not believe our eyes, we walk all the way over the floor and feel the bed...
// 'the left hand' by robert bly, from the beautiful poetry prose book, 'this body is made of camphor and gopherwood.' whisper it shrouded in candlelight
