Tuesday, January 10
THE BODY This last continent Still to be discovered. My hand is dreaming, is building Its ship. For crew it takes A pack of bones, for food A beer-bottle full of blood. It knows the breath that blows north. With the breath from the west It will sail east each night. The scent of your body as it sleeps Are the land-birds sighted at sea. My touch is on the highest mast. It cries at four in the morning For a lantern to be lit On the rim of the world. (Charles Simic, 1938-2023)