Excerpt from the book The Gatehouse Heaven
Empty HouseEvery few nights I walk over here, screen door opened
And springless, leaves now up to the second step,
No one watching out the window but me with my elbows
On the ledge, my face staring back at my staring in.
What if all along, I’d been waiting in there? What if
The bird left its nest behind the mantel and built
Another beside this glass? I still wouldn’t know
How to read something so physical as any moment is,
Something as known as a crooked stick, as the look
Of one wing in the other. Maybe it’s true that everything
Leads to this, a night in which silence displays its own
Hidden architecture, the hewn gables, the untranslatable
Syllable of moon in a tilt above the roof, only to show
How absent the self is. How picked of words. How near at hand.
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