This is called "The Spacemen," and it
began to be a poem about the arrival of some creatures
from outer space.
And after some help and many versions,
it turned out to be a poem about communication, I guess.
"The Spacemen."
Every night, a shape like a bell covers our house.
Though I do not welcome it so eagerly, I sleep.
They step in, blind as light drops into a man's eyes.
They enter the spaces between us.
My wife will stare at them like death.
These heartless fallen stars.
If our shoes don't fit or the children's names
were wrongly given, they might bury
us deep in our lives' disappointment
and vanish deaf to our need.
These are real words and real fears,
like the sound of a bell.
Yet we go on rehearsing and explaining,
dealing the same cards around.
And there is always the silence with which to contend.
No casual gestures are left.
We need to fill these spaces with trust, we don't know how.
The business of language falling away,
all of us standing like mute guests
in the living room against the walls
without photographs of ancestors, without tiny gold
watches to wind.