When I’m crying, I’m not speaking

                    Barred back from the glare
                    gone gripped along
                    the rail run-down
                    running from or toward
                    no matter no
                    mind never
                    hell for leather
                    scraped across
                    night’s increment
                    torn from the sedge the salvage
                    shorn at the edge
                    forlorn fore-
                    warned they said
                    hefting waxed
                    breached waning
                    whine needling half-
                    heard then hearing
                    help winded in
                    the wind gone
                    the words’ grip
                    ground to a halt   

—Susan Stewart