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.