Today's poem is by Eliza Griswold
We're too young for this discourse of ex's
ex-habits and yearnings for why
nothing fits as it did in our dreams,
neither horrific nor wonderful.
How could we dream this life
and yet we have; its marble stairs
with tongue-colored veins; its panes
of lead glass and French doors
opening onto nowhere in particular
and everywhere that matters.
Somewhere over the blue lawn
(beneath which, a congress
of woodchucks maps out next season's
excavations), something calls us
to the best of ourselves. Settle for less,
and the terrace returns, stung
with the scent of night-blooming cereus
or gas leaking from the main
under the lawn. The first dream I remember
is everyone's: falling
into a gorge's glossy black water,
thicker with life
than the airnever, of course,
landing there, but falling
the way they say is simply falling asleep.
The dreams we keep to ourselves
become who we are. Keep everything
under your tongue and don't
come home. Go far and farther still.
We'll meet in dreams as we do now.
I'll be waiting for you on the windowsill
we already knew we knew.
Copyright © 2002 Eliza Griswold All rights reserved
from The Southwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
Support Verse Daily
Verse Daily's very generous sponsors:
Sponsor Verse Daily!
Web Monthly Features
About Verse Daily
Contact Verse Daily
Publications Noted & Received
Copyright © 2002 Verse Daily
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2002 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved
[an error occurred while processing this directive]