But the unconscious cannot be civilized. It takes
a candle when it goes to the cellar.
The Poetics of Space
Rising from sleep at dawn, sun-kindled
like a wave you flow from room to roof
securing the edges of your day.
You say this is the grandeur of your solitude,
this rhythmic wash through bounded space,
balcony, dining room, kitchen, den, the attic
where your careful poems salt the antique air.
Beneath the house, water scours the cellar wall.
You wish to descend the sea-worn stairs
but at night, unsettled by the obscuring dark
you fear the rip-tide’s pull
will drown the candle in your ageing hand
and carry you boundless into the unsayable.