My wife, who is often as unassuming
as Ophelia, came in last night after I had
gone to bed. Where I was? And what?
No matter. Just some lifeless golem clay,
statue that lifts under her touch and flies
to the wing of her mouth.
And she to me?
More than perpetual stasis. More than
the hard chronos that disquiets and eludes.
So much that in the monument of the dark
the hands began, and the mouths and lips
all entering into the blind drinking
and the principle of consume and be consumed
was as fine as first commission.
For is it not original what two working
the endless math of one and one can perfect,
can echo in each other?
I looked out my window this morning,
which is what writers do.
The trees were enacting their simple vigil
of absence and creation, and I thought
for a moment that would be all.
But how powerful it was then to sense
through the closed door, a drawer opening
and soon after-- quiet steps on the smooth floor
and receding stair.