The dry universe
Gives up its fruit,
Black seeds are raining,
Pascal dreams of a wristwatch,
And heaven help me
The metempsychosis of book
Is upon me. I hunch over it,
The boy in the asylum
Whose fingers leapt for words.
(In the dark books are living things,
Quiescent as cats.)
Each time we lift them
We feel again
The ache of amazement
Under summer stars.
It’s a dread thing
To be lonely
Without reason.
My window stays open
And I study late
As quick, musical laughter
Rises from the street
And I rub grains of the moon
In my hands.
From Only Bread, Only Light (Copper Canyon Press, 2000). Copyright © 2000 by Stephen Kuusisto. Used with the permission of the author.