On its blazing hair, and the black widow
Hoarded her power.
And I listened, when I went to bed,
To the strange language of adults
At story hour.
What
were
they saying, as they built
A wing on the night, closed off
As their work echoed back beyond the wall,
And the glaring work lights
Could only be guessed at, by the confidence
Of the faint voices? There was no groping
For words among them. It was the listener
Who groped, bound to bed
By drowsiness , breath balled up like a rag
To stop the loud heart.
The head, the room, the house , the world,
The journey out is a passing through doors
After the eyes open , if they open.
The stasis of sleep prevents this
And propels it spirally through dream,
Past the drowning urge
To keep the open book from falling face down .
The head , the room, the house
Begin where the human is a voice·
And the voice a story and the story
An episode and the episode
A sandman's powder of mumbling and sighs .
The room, the house, the world
Can only be travelled this way.
Get up.
Walk out the door , down the hall ,
Up the stairs and into the living room
Where they still chatter. Their voices
Begin to sharpen like stones when a pool stills .
