This poem is dedicated to Michael Cuddihy.
It's not-- it's not addressed to him,
it's addressed to the man I live with, but--
but dedicated to Michael.
I had some difficulty with my health at one point,
and I found out that it was sort of--
it wasn't going to go back to being normal again.
And so, I guess, I became frightened
and started getting up extremely early in the morning
and trying to use up every inch of the day.
And this poem takes place in my kitchen,
which is very white to begin with, in the light of dawn.
And as it comes up in the first half of the day,
it makes it extremely white.
It's really a blazing room.
"Still Life With Window And Fish."
"Down here this morning in my white kitchen
along the slim body of the light,
the narrow body that would otherwise say forever
the same thing, the beautiful interruptions, the things
of this world, twigs and power lines,
eaves and ranking branches burn all over my walls.
Even the windowpanes are rich.
The whole world outside wants to come into here,
to angle into the simpler shapes of rooms,
to be broken and rebroken against the sure coordinates
of walls.
The whole world outside--
I know it's better, whole, outside, the world--
whole trees, whole groves--
but I love it in here where it blurs,
and nothing starts or ends, but all is waving, and colorless,
and voiceless.
Here is the fish-spine on the sea of my bone china plate.
Here is a fish-spine on the sea of my hand,
flickering, all its freight fallen away,
here is the reason for motion washed in light,
fanning, gliding upstream in the smoke of twigs,
the rake against the shed outside, the swaying birdcage
and its missing tenant.
If I should die before you do, you
can find me anywhere in this floral, featureless, indelible
surf.
We are too restless to inherit this earth.
[APPLAUSE]