The shabby roof of the earth
Is just southwest of my house.
You think I’m being metaphorical.
(Show photo of severed shed roof
in the tall grass prairie, something
we never got around to burning.)
Thomas said you know a place
For the first time by returning.
I say, just before leaving.
We are both right.
A martini in a mason jar
With anchovy stuffed olives
Helps render the insight.
I’ll always wish meditation
Were so quick to tender
This lingering off-pillow presence.
Habit is hard to make.
In the red guest house
Where artists and poets have slept,
I have laid out their books
And hung lithic broadsides.
For moist air, for fingers,
For fly leaves and title pages.
I read aloud Jack’s poem on the wall
To no one but myself.
I am a fine audience.