Saskia Hamilton

The Labryrinth Suggests a Center

The past, however, will be full of danger.

The little black salt bowl on the table. The lid, the spoon.

A recurrent undercurrent.

And the natural world of repetitions leads you from day to day as from
rock to rock and time

leads you forward toward

not the equinoctial

not the formal

while grief lengthens itself into the right shoulder
and reaches down.

You must press it close to your sides and walk the crowded sidewalk,
as if the one were the other.



© 2002 Electronic Poetry Review