In my fist I squeezed

the livid ink of hate

and never waited for the ink

to cry like a little crow

and the crackle of his back- bone

rouse my mind's cunning foxes

out of their siesta

from the fatigued bars of my fingers

the ink dripped:

drop by drop

and all the blotters in the office

soaked in that fluid livid,

and my secretary, lazy and ugly,

dabbed her white eye-lids with it .

Alas, my hate's border is not clear .

Many a time

have I limited the border of hate's desert

with the wooden poles of fairness

and with the help of mistress.

Yet a hand has always.

whisked away her help and the signed poles-

perhaps some heart's frozen chamber

awaits the warm miracle of woods.

Alas, my hate's border is not clear .

The bulk of work

and the hum of the air- conditioner

and the scent of soaked blotters

break my power to search.