some people never open
their windows; they don’t
even know the light in their
own house: on a hill, up a wish,
down a well, over the bows
and arrows of this slant-death
that comes too quickly
and without discovery.
they don’t know the planes of
their own ocean floors, the jig-
saw spread and tongue-in-groove
lilt of sloping wood where you can
lie flat for hours and breathe
deeply for the first time in your
life: buried briefly far and away
from the shiny hammer of terror.
if you never attend to your
fear—to the full tilt and lift of the
continent sheets; the vast forms of ice:
the spite—you can never attend to your love.