Pursuit of Poetry
A project screen I mistake for an instrument player , plucking melancholy like a violin on best days , worst days , test days . A piece of classroom glass , daring the city to turn blue from gray . A pair of eyes , seeing a spoonful of fireflies , a mouthful of the moon , a melting snow shell ... It is just a window with a tree , a teacher and a student in nested chairs like birds , touching their home .
Now , finally , the gifts I want most : a mind you can ’ t smooth like wrinkles in shirt sleeves —
and one last thing . A door . One you can ’ t lock or crack open without burning the whole place down . No keys No password No guard . Just me , willing the world away with a home of willpower . a list of things you can ’ t count a shelf of books you can ’ t buy a test of questions you can ’ t read a painting of things you can ’ t see a music of concerts you can ’ t hear a ghost you can ’ t feel
Thank you for the gifts , I can say “ Thank you , I am home ” without ever being understood because this is a poem not a list of gifts to keep at a second home .
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