"Sentencings"

Color Record No. 11, Side A:

and more Jane Hirshfield:

Sentencings

By Jane Hirshfield

A thing too perfect to be remembered:

stone beautiful only when wet.

*     *     *

Blinded by light or black cloth—

so many ways

not to see others suffer.

*     *     *

Too much longing:

it separates us

like scent from bread,

rust from iron.

*     *     *

From very far or very close—

the most resolute folds of the mountain are gentle.

*     *     *

As if putting arms into woolen coat sleeves,

we listen to the murmuring dead.

*     *     *

Any point of a circle is its start:

desire forgoing fulfillment to go on desiring.

*     *     *

In a room in which nothing

has happened,

sweet-scented tobacco.

*     *     *

The very old, hands curling into themselves, remember their parents.

*     *     *

Think assailable thoughts, or be lonely.