This massive apartment: a whole room left Empty to air, where we used to sleep. So many steps on the waxed wood, like off turns On the dial of a lock whose combination one’s lost— All decaying about me like empire, The moldings moldering while I sit frozen As a swan on the surface of a lake changing to ice. Fruit
sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox
There is nothing beautiful here
However I may want it. I can’t
Spin a crystal palace of this thin air,
Weave a darkness plush as molefur with my tongue
However I want. Yet I am not alone
In these alleys of vowels, which comfort me
As the single living nun of a convent
Is comforted by the walls of that catacomb
She walks at night, lit by her own moving candle.
I am not afraid of mirrors or the future
—Or even you, lovers, wandering cow-fat
And rutting in the gardens of this earthly verge
Where I too trod, a sunspot, parasol-shaded,
Kin to the trees, the bees, the color green.