child poem

the sun is up
my sorrow, when she's here with me
in his guarded tent
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
a pen of steel
among the mountains i wandered
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
out of me unworthy and unknown
sleep, gray brother of death
backward, turn backward
musing, between the sunset and the dark
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
do i like it
i know what you're going to say