This is a sequence of three poems
thematically related called "Elsewheres."
I don't usually read this one because--
I don't know.
Something about it seems hard to me,
but it's on a theme, which has always been close to me.
And so I would like people to like it.
But the three sections are called
South, North, and waiting room.
The last section was supposed to be called something
like middle West, but that didn't seem right,
so it had to be waiting.
Anyway, the title is "Elsewheres."
So these are three places where you're not
and then South is the first.
The long green shutters are drawn against white parades.
Closing our eyes against the sun,
we try to imagine the darkness of an interior in which
something might still happen.
The rays are lying open on the cool marble wash stand.
The drip of something, is it water upon stone floors?
North.
Already it is midsummer in the Sweden of our lives.
The peasants have joined hands, they
are circling the haystacks.
We watch from the veranda.
We sit mufflered humming the tune
in snatches under our breath.
We tremble sometimes not with emotion.
Waiting room.
Reading the signs, we learn what to expect.
The train's late, the machine's out of order.
We learn what it is to stare out in the space.
Great farms surround us.
Squares of a checkerboard, taking our places we wait.
We wait to be moved.