Anne Carson

6.1

When my brother died (unexpectedly) his

widow couldn't find a phone number for me among his

papers until two weeks later. While I swept my porch

and bought apples and sat by the window in the evening

with the radio on, his death came wandering slowly

towards me across the sea.

Nox by Anne Carson; 2010

Jim Moore

ON THE DAY AFTER

The old woman who lives across the street

runs her vacuum

on the day after Christmas,

cleaning up after the silence

of the day before.

Two small geraniums in the window

lean into one another

like people whispering at a funeral:

signs of life.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Now the hour bows down, it touches me, throbs

metallic, lucid and bold:

my senses are trembling. I feel my own power –

on the plastic day I lay hold.

Until I perceived it, no thing was complete,

but waited, hushed, unfulfilled.

My vision is ripe, to each glance like a bride

comes softly the thing that was willed.

There is nothing too small, but my tenderness paints

it large on a background of gold,

and I prize it, not knowing whose soul at the sight,

released, may unfold . . .

[Poems from The Book of Hours]