July 28, 2008

The Room of Not-Knowing

Thereís a bed, a lamp, a bureau,
the drawer filled with your socks.
You keep the corners clear
for piles of laundry, magazines.
You sit at the desk hunting
what you donít know in words
unspooling filigreed patterns
laced like nests across an inner sky.

Someone carries the chair to the car.

When the nests fall
from the weight of their knots
you make new ones
or give up and construct a series
of shifting screens dark or light
depending on whether you
remembered to change the bulb.
Some have the translucence of pearls
or the wings of mating dragonflies.

The car carries someone to the chair.

You come through rain
before everything strung and fallen,
brief as photos, your chance
to live at the heart of the real
and to tell. You are perturbed
at the pronounciation of your name.
Sleeping above you the skeleton
dangles your writing hand from its ear.

The chair someone carries is a car.

—H. T. Harrison

Posted by dwaber at July 28, 2008 02:16 PM