This is a poem that I wrote while I was home.
We were talking in some of the classes about the fact
that you don't have to have a huge momentous thing occurring
in your life to write the poem.
And this was just a very simple thing.
I wanted to go out in the middle of the night and mail a letter.
And the house was asleep.
My parents were asleep in the house.
And it was out in the country.
The town was about a mile away so it was very, very quiet.
And on the way back to the house, I started to feel like,
why are you in such a hurry to get back to this house?
It's a nice night.
Everyone's asleep.
I mean, you could stay out here for a long while.
But here you are you're in a hurry to get back to the house.
And I just looked up.
And the stars were up there.
And I started to turn like when you're a kid,
and you make the stars go around by turning yourself.
And it was a wonderful sensation,
and I was suddenly back in my childhood.
And I went in and I wanted to write a poem about that.
But I somehow just couldn't bring that part quite into it
although some vestige of it still remains in the poem.
This is called Under Stars.
The sleep of this night deepens because I have walked countless
from the house carrying the white envelope.
All night, it will say one name in its little tin house
by the roadside.
I have raised the metal flag.
So its shadow under the road lamp
leaves an imprint on the rain heavy bushes.
Now, I will walk back thinking of the few lights
still on in the town a mile away.
In the yellowed light of a kitchen,
the mill worker has finished his coffee.
His wife has laid out the white slices of bread on the counter.
Now, while the bed they have left is still warm,
I will think of you.
You who are so far away.
You have caused me to look up at the stars.
Tonight, they have not moved from childhood.
Those games played after dark.
Again, I walk into the wet grass toward the starry voices.
Again, I am the found one intimate
returned by all I touch on the way to you.