O you rakers of sand, come. I bow, slightly, to the stone ear. It is once againthe season of resemblances. Forfeit, my life, your life, lives livedin the company of doors. Come in, come in, the sound is moist with morning dew.It will perform to your bidding. The party guests are old men & women now,or dead. One thrust an awl through his childhood. The awl was language,he had heated it, it glowed reddish-orange. So much for the dead — you, rakers of sand,I am talking to you. I invite you in. You may blow out your candles & deposit them
here, in this iron box. Archipelagoes circling the hotel at midnight, I watchedthrough dulled blinds. I breathed onto the cold porcelain as if it were glass,as if through it…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, January/February 2025