Am lean against.
Am the heavy hour
Hand at urge,
At the verge of one. Am the ice comb of the tonsured
Hair, am the second
Hand, halted, the velvet opera glove. Am slant. Am fen, the injure
Wind at withins,
Stranger where the storm forms a face if the body stands enough
In a weather this
Cripple & this rough. Am shunt. Was moon-shaped helmet left
In bog, was condition
Of a spirit shorn, childlike & herd. Was Andalusian, ambsace,
Bird. Am kept.
Was keeper of the badly marred, was furious done god, was
Patient, was bad
Luck, was nurse. Ninety badly wounded men lay baying
In the reddened reedy
Hay of Saxony, was surgeon to their flinch & hoop, was hospice
To their torso hall,
Was numinous creature to their dying
Off. Am numb.
Was shoulder & queer luck. Am among.
Was--why--or the mutton & moss. Was the rented room.
Was chamber & ambage
& tender & burn. Am esurient, was the hungry form.
Was the bleating thing.
Excerpted from The Master Letters by Lucie Brock-Broido. . Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.