I have lost my map,
numb as the moon,
half wondering if April
will bring me to life.
To keep from going mad
I'll be a knife waiting,
a wolf at a live heart,
voice like a boulder,
before earth opens,
a wound,
Death looking on
with a casual eye.
A found poem by Mary Bast, revived from
Anne Sexton's collection, The Awful Rowing Toward God.
