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

Elegy for Jane Kenyon (2)

Part I The Pen The sandy road, the bright green two-inch lizard little light on the road the pen that writes by itself the mist that blows by, through itself the gourd I drink from in my sleep that also drinks from me —Who taught me to know instead of not to know? And this pen its thought lying on the thought of the table a bow lying across the strings not moving held Elegy for Jane Kenyon (2) Jane is big with death, Don sad and kind—Jane though she’s dying is full of mind We talk about the table the little walnut one how it’s like Emily Dickinson’s the cradle of the real life 247 But Don says No Dickinson’s was made of iron. No said Jane Of flesh. Black Wolf Suffocated in the country a sheep in my own curtain wolf curtain! The black wolf nobody else saw I alone saw trotting down the lane past our house —Black Heart! Don’t go past our house don’t get lost just when I’ve found you just when life is not afraid any more. Of me. Just when— (I didn’t need to hate them. You can’t beat a stick. But nobody else could see what they were like. See it wasn’t all “on the green hill sheep kneel and feed”)— Mother Bones B. is dragging his mother’s bones up the stone stairs 248 door in the mountain ...