Question My mother is growing younger in my thoughts, And is recovering under the ground, As the frail lily-like hand Is petrified by agony and fright, And I’m still wondering why in my thought I see my mother growing younger. So Much Searching You told me in the phone call That the last poem I’ve sent you, Is put in a Sèvres bowl, An expensive one, inherited from your grandparents. You read it from time to time and also caress it And it smells like fresh earth, Like a rose before the falling of hoar-frost, Of dew and rain, Sometimes it smells like me, And a little dizzy You do not know what to do with the page From where so many vowels and exclamation marks Are flying to your heart. Offer ...