Sometimes I see it as a straight line
Drawn with a pencil and a ruler
Transecting the circle of the world
Or as a finger piercing
A smoke-ring, casual, inquisitive,
But then the sun will come out
Or the phone will ring
and I will cease to wonder.
If it is one thing,
a large ball of air and memory,
Or many things,
a string of small farming towns,
a dark road winding through them.
Let us say it is a field
I have been hoeing every day,
Hoeing and singing,
Then going to sleep in one of its furrows,
Or now that Is is more than half over,
A partially open door,
rain dripping from the eaves.
Like yours, it could be anything,
A nest with one egg,
a hallway that leads to a thousand rooms.
Whatever happens to float into vies
When I close my eyes
It look out a window
For more than a few minutes,
So that some day I think
It must be everything and nothing at once.
