you give me this, i give youthat. it should be simple andwithout much sentiment. suchare the tacit rules of humanexchange for times like thisone: an evening roll in the hay, au bord de la marne, where it is late intoautumn and steam rises gently off thebodies of the munching bovines, the mud-crusted ponies. i take off my oldlady mask - as diane once said- and slip easily out of my street worn jeans. i sleep all night inyour branches. it is warm there,despite the snowflakes fallingaround us. which of us paidfor dinner at the countryinn? was it momentary shelter, altar of encounter? did nothingflicker in the heart, beyond basic calculation, the thoughtthat one place is as good or perhaps betterthan another? the train leaving longueville runs backwardsover red plastic, past ripped out tracks and thereis some emergency that keeps slowing usdown. theempty metal bellies of furnace,of industrial choke are gone for now butwe know it is thanks to them we could getthis far. a bandof deer i was too slow to captureare gone now too, their fresh tracks pressedthrough a light snow receding, like all paths crossed too quickly, leaving no more than a memory and its sweet, severed limbs. s. WomenWomen have no wilderness in themThey are provident instead,Content in the tight cells of their heartTo eat dusty bread.They do not see cattle cropping red winter grass,They do not hearSnow water going down under culvertsShallow and clear.They wait, when they should turn to journeysThey stiffen, when they should bend.They use against themselves that benevolenceTo which no man is friend.They cannot think of so many crops to a fieldOr of clean wood cleft by an axe.Their love is an eager meaninglessnessToo tense, or too lax.They hear in every whisper that speaks to themA shout and a cry.As like os not, when they take life over their door-sillsThey should let it go by.MulheresMulheres nao tem nelas a terra selvagem.Sao precavidas em lugar disso.Satisfeitas no compartimento quente dos seus coracoesA comer pao endurecidoElas nao enxergam o gado que mastiga a erva vermelha do invernoElas nao escutam a aguaDa neve que derrete, descendo pelos bueirosRasa e claraElas esperam, quando deveriam pegar a estradaElas enrijecem, quando deveriam se dobrarElas usam contra elas mesmas essa benevolenciaQue homem nenhum ira apreciarElas nao se perguntam sobre os plantios que cabem num campoNem sobre a madeira limpa clivada pelo machadoSeu amor e um vazio ansiosoMuito tenso, ou muito lassoEm cada susurro que lhes falam, ouvemum pranto ou um bramirComo quando, queiram ou naoRecolhem a vida pela soleiraEm vez de deixa-la ir.Versao: Miriam Adelman & Takeshi Ishihara fiz as perguntas necessarias.a solidao e uma cerejeira, e o fruto,possivel. como voce, amo as vozesda rua, mas ja se calaram. na labuta diaria contra a toxina lenta, imagemque procura espelho. nao e mais a minhabeleza, nem a tua. o tempo se encarregou disso,as nuvens dos desastres nucleares, ouo perfurar abrupto de armas comuns.as pessoas com seus pequenos potes de veneno, tambem. e com o minimoque nos contentamos: o pao ainda fresquinho,uma ameixa que conseguimos colher, a cabecado cachorro contra minhas canelas. talvezcontinuemos. masnao