Poem of the Week

Before it can stop itself, the mind

has leapt up inferences, crag to crag,

the obvious arpeggio. Where there is a doorbell

there must be a door - a door

meant to be opened from inside.

Door means house means - wait a second -

but already it is standing on a threshold previously

known to be thin air, gawking. The Black Spruce

point to it: clarity,

melting into ordinary morning, true

north. Where the sky is just a name,

a way to pitch a little tent in space and sleep

for five unnumbered seconds.