My head bowed under the rafters
I make a start in the attic's advantage,
the lowered lamp, a cushion
deleting the daylight, but I'm given
to climbing out onto the flat roof
leaving my papers, my books,
the closed doors and closed windows,
for those dark sayings
that have no hinges to swing
towards what they mean, and so
are more like song, more necessary.
I'd rise like this, day after day,
above the strain of hard angles, servant's quarters,
clarifying the openness of your face,
love, and this generous sky.
Sidereal. Picador, 2011.
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