So many doors through which New England disappears. No safety here amid Bed & Breakfast Bibles pilfered from our drawers, Dante's Nineteenth Canto buried in a thrift shop behind the local church -- the feet of Blake's inverted man bursting to flames. Nothing else changes, only flowers rearranged near calendars hung on rusty nails, holy discarded by immaculate maids like tinder for the fire -- the town's off-season stillness akin to that lighthouse etched in stone above our twin beds. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FAMILY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD DOMESDAY BOOK: GEORGE JOSLIN ON LA MENKEN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DOMESDAY BOOK: MRS. MURRAY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS NICHARCHUS UPON PHIDON HIS DOCTOR by EZRA POUND |