You who sees through our windows like light,
sees the thoughts we hide in the oven of ourselves,
hears us freeze on the staircase between yes and no,
you who knows the betrayal inside every word,
speak to me in sleep what waking I cannot hear.
Show me the flames, the house falling of its own weight,
the terrible boxcars, and if there are still jewels
in the world, let there be so many
there’s no need to pocket a single one ….
When the world shrinks to a leaf underfoot,
to a beggar’s soiled trousers
and the punk who kicks him awake,
when love’s drudgery grows blind to its own miracle,
you who hides in thick leaves that fall
and mulch the earth, who speaks in bird shadow,
cloud script, the toothless spit of the old—
open the storehouse of wonder,
mix the palette of sleep, till on waking
the world, even in darkness, is so present
there is nothing to hide, withhold or hoard.
Let the banging shutter sing,
and the storm-riven tree shake its tangled locks.
Invisible host, ghostwriter, spirit grocer,
it isn’t for riches I ask, but awe.
Betsy Sholl, a former poet laureate of Maine, is author of several collections of poetry, including Otherwise Unseeable (2014).
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