there be bears about. there be hares and the shouts of little children who spring forth through the woods. i've swallowed pouting. i've clamped my mouth so it hangs down but only so.
you cannot know how hard it is to see the sun go out.
there be wolves here. there be old men in costumes. there be bald and furious women. there be incurable soreness. there be the settling of dusts and aphids. i've hung my rafters high. i've gutted the chapel for its shiny objects. its glass that colors the light. you cannot know how easy it is to let the wind go on blowing.
there be needles dangling. there be fast and doglike panting. there be the catch to breath--a latch to knock back,
all the friends who've never settled their debts.
and we come by the way that we stumble.
and the afternoon is long and slow, it hangs its coat on the roadsigns.
you are no horse to be known that way. i am the atmosphere of delaying. i'll post the bear that i saw in the woods while i walked. i'll not cut back the skin there.