But with the sentence:
"Use your failures for paper."
Meaning, I understood,
the backs of failed poems, but also my life.
Whose far side I begin now to enter—
A book imprinted without seeming season,
each blank day bearing on its reverse, in random order,
the mad-set type of another.
December 12, 1960. April 4, 1981. 13th of August, 1974—
Certain words bleed through to the unwritten pages.
To call this memory offers no solace.
"Even in sleep, the heavy millstones turning."
I do not know where the words come from,
what the millstones,
where the turning may lead.
I, a woman forty-five, beginning to gray at the temples,
putting pages of ruined paper
into a basket, pulling them out again.
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