WEBVTT

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"The Poet."

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"She is working now in a room
not unlike this one, the one

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where I write or you read.

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Her table is covered with paper.

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The light of the lamp
would be tempered

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by a shade where the bulb's
single harshness might

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dissolve.

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But it is not--

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she has taken it off.

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Her poems, I will never know
them, though they are the ones

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I most need.

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Even the alphabet she writes
in, I cannot decipher.

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Her chair, let us imagine
whether it is leather

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or canvas, vinyl or wicker.

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Let her have a chair, her
shadeless lamp, the table.

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Let one or two she loves
be in the next room.

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Let the door be closed,
the sleeping ones healthy.

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Let her have time and
silence, enough paper

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to make mistakes and go on."

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