light house

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.


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