Gone are the days
when you could walk on water.
When you could walk.
The days are gone.
Only one day remains,
the one you're in.
The memory is no friend.
It can only tell you
what you no longer have:
a left hand you can use,
two feet that walk.
All the brain's gadgets.
The one hand that still works
grips, won't let go.
That is not a train.
There is no cricket.
Let's not panic.
Let's talk about axes,
which kinds are good,
the many names of wood.
This is how to build
a house, a boat, a tent.
No use; the toolbox
refuses to reveal its verbs;
the rasp, the plane, the awl,
revert to sullen metal.
Do you recognize anything? I said.
Yes, you said. The bed.
Better to watch the stream
that flows across the floor
and is made of sunlight,
the forest made of shadows;
better to watch the fireplace
which is now a beach.
Margaret Atwood's Other Poems
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(September 25, 1930 – May 10, 1999)
(13 February 1879 - 2 March 1949)
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