Friday, May 4, 2012


Thought eccentric by locals
—she wore white—
her Reluctance—
Or, later in life,
To leave her room.

She was troubled
By the "deepening
Of those too close.

And these words—
Of friends—
Gone sleeping
The “churchyard sleep—“
The sad hour of evening—
Once a time for study—
The words have gone to rest,
And the book, open—
The scholar—alone—
Producing tears,
Poems she can’t wipe away;
Nor would she if she could—
They feel her only tribute:

“Home is so far from home”—here
This "funeral in the brain"—
This failure of life’s hunger—
Death’s teleology—
Demising itself—
A rotted space—
Twain murder and suicide—

She knew her mind as spirit
Yet tangible, a place to go
And much of her life—
The best of it, perhaps—
Was lived there—

The "undiscovered continent"
Of the spirit’s landscape—
Embellished by nature,
Not words—
Where one resides with
One's other selves:

“Me from Myself—
To banish—but since myself
—Assault Me—
Have I peace
By quitting me—
From Me.”

If Emily Dickinson
Were living
Today, I'd propose—
In wedded bliss
We'd spend our lives
At home—alone—
Together—in our flanking rooms,
with a wee hole in the wall
for conversation—

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