Song
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Suite (For Hoku)A poem is a room that contains
the house it’s in, the way you
accommodate me when I lie
beside you, even if the address
is lost so many times and the names
of streets are strangers that pass
shuffling a card-deck of maps
whose rubber band has snapped:
still beyond all chance or choice
perhaps, your arms fold mine
to indicate location, the close
custom of place held together
or flung into the bedroom’s air
where your dress tries to come in
from the rain it has become:
the way shelter finds us one again,
and the opus of this nearness,
the poem on its own, wandering.
-Bill Knott
Is it too early to have spring fever? Because I'm afraid this malady has befallen me, and I don't see relief any time soon.
