The Po Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the empty chairs and unplugged microphones
Of the conference crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the podium shagged with ice,
The chapbooks rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few fluttering pages,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, unpublished himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
|