It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?
Posted with kind permission of the poet. From Another River: New and Selected Poems, Amherst Writers and Artists Press.
Someone says “Good-bye” and disappears behind doors or fades into the distance in a train…
This might be the best I’ll ever feel, these aches, these pains, this deep fatigue—…
We need to separate to see the life we’ve made, to leave our house where…
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