It’s late in coming. It had far to go.
There is no name for it but it’s called grief.
A clenched fist is no more than a frail sheaf
of brittle fingerbones – it’s hard to know
one’s weakness properly. And very few
can view their weakness as a strong safe lair.
One stands on some huge Gustav Adolf square
and sees oneself forsaken. It’s hard too
to cross a square like that. A hand that lies
open’s nearly always empty. And a cage
where no bird’s ever lived can easily
convey confusion. By what right do we
disdain a freedom that by nature, stage
by stage, would loosen cautiously all ties?