Door in the Mountain: New and Collected Poems, 1965-2003

Letter from a Country Room

and my body— its hypnotic ticking over and over, wanting, not wanting, in all that hard-edged, squared-off, positive concrete, aluminum. I let it go, all seven years and seven years. I’m weightless, free unwritten space How do they get from minute to minute here? Far off, low, a little stir begins, a word, a missed beat, a listening: thisworld , this-world. Letter from a Country Room Off without you I hang around in the middle distance, walking, talking, working made-up mindwork to send to the city Michael where you are, where you write “She’s coming back from the coast next week, I don’t know what then” A moth beats at the screen, the thin, yellow dotted curtain lifts, tacked to the soft scribbled-over wood signed QB + FB 8/15-(69) Nothing Fuck War To No Peace, Jaybo? Worry About 108 door in the mountain The sky streams hollowness, no city cover of light. I follow, where they go, someone’s house, I go, dim, incognito: tacked to the way things are. Everything streams: dumbstruck, stopped stock-still: you too: Jaybo! Our quiet trustful sides pro tec ted anyhow down the whole 200 miles. A Child’s Death I remember the dark spaces, black sand islands rising on the x-rays: what I couldn’t touch. Not like this world, our old solid, where we multiply; not this blurred body merely her history. Revolution Here is a man. Behind him dark, in front of him dark. The fuse the world lit ordinary things 109 ...