So far, the proportion of Venezuelan to American readers of this blog is 1 to 477. On the other hand, my one lost Venezuelan is the only soul in all of South America to wander here; I hope this makes her (or him, or it) quietly proud.
So slow the change; there was no second
On which I could have tapped my foot
Saying on one side “And now I am his”
And on the other “And now I am my own.”
The weather grew colder; that’s all
Until I knew he no longer stood
Between the north wind and me.
When my soul was lost I could
Have pilgrimmed forth to find her
Or slept easy, free of the weight
Of her regard for me.
I took, instead, a room in town
And gathered scraps and bits
Trying to make a new one.