Let’s say a regular evening’s darkness
disturbs no one, as it shouldn’t. Even
when a storm knocks down wires
there are phones that work in the dark
and cabinets with canned food
until help arrives. Occasionally we can turn
a bad day into an acceptable one
by drilling a cross-court backhand
past a bad-sport enemy, or getting to the heart
of someone’s elusive heart. Still, there’s no escaping
that you were born and haven’t yet died.
For years suffering has been hanging around,
wanting its fair share of you. Let’s say you’ve been
lucky so far. It’s true that the moon is always shining
in one hemisphere or another, while the dark
deepens, settles, makes a home for the stars.
Let’s say you think of it as your job to cast
a light on some of the empty spaces left by the gods.
What’s a poet anyway but someone who gives
the unnamed a name? A see-er more than a seer,
a maker of what becomes obvious, that’s been there
all along. What you unearth resembles,
you hope, the real. You want that boy
who used to read under the covers by flashlight
to once again be astonished.
Once again he is. Suddenly there’s this country
of no longer hidden things, this other world
both of you are walking toward.