“That's how it is sometimes--God comes to your window, all bright light and black wings, and you're just too tired to open it.” SometimesLightBlackWindowTiredWingsBright Lights Book:What we carry: poems Source: What we carry: poems
“And I saw it didn't matter who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty of the Iranian attendant, the thickening clouds--nothing was mine. And I understood finally, after a semester of philosophy, a thousand books of poetry, after death and childbirth and the startled cries of men who called out my name as they entered me, I finally believed I was alone, felt it in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo like a thin bell.” MenHeartBookMatterPhilosophyNamesFeltBlackSawsHeardCryMinesThousandUnderstoodCloudsBellsEchoesAfter DeathChildbirthIranianVisceralSlickSemesterAsphalt Book:What we carry: poems Source: What we carry: poems
“Someone spoke to me last night,/ told me the truth. Just a few words,. but I recognized it./ I knew I should make myself get up,/ Write it down, but it was late,/ and I was exhausted from working/ all day in the garden, moving rocks./ Now, I remember only the flavor--/ not like food, sweet or sharp./ More like a fine powder, like dust./ And I wasn't elated or frightened,/ but simply rapt, aware./ That's how it is sometimes--/ God comes to your window,/ all bright light and black wings,/ and you're just too tired to open it.” ShouldWritingSometimesLightLastsRememberMovingNightBlackRocksSweetFineLateGardenWindowTiredWingsGet UpDustSpokesFrightenedExhaustedFlavorLast NightPowderFew WordsBright Lights Book:What we carry: poems Source: What we carry: poems
