I want to find the porch
of the poem. I think
if I could just stand there
with one fist pressed hard
against the ache at the base
of my spine, if I could stare off
toward the sea of neighboring mountaintops
whose clouds threaten to make
common cause with my own darknesses –
then I could turn and pass over
the threshold, entering deep within.
My mother warns me that the corners
of this rough room have overlooked spaces
where light never reaches. Having seen
the heart of the house already, time
after time unchanging, she thinks
it would be just as well
to rest on the porch and wait
for night to fall full upon you
because, after all, hunger and cold
will drive you inside soon enough,
where more work is still waiting
once you get past the scenery.