There's nothing I can't find under there.
Voices in the trees, the missing pages
of the sea.
Everything but sleep.
And night is a river bridging
the speaking and listening banks,
a fortress, undefended and inviolate.
There's nothing that won't fit under it:
fountains clogged with mud and leaves,
the houses of my childhood.
And night begins when my mother's fingers
let go of the thread
they've been tying and untying
to touch toward our fraying story's hem.
Night is the shadow of my father's hands
setting the clock for resurrection.
Or is it the clock unraveled, the numbers flown?
Ther's nothing that hasn't found home there:
discarded wings, lost shoes, a broken alphabet.
Everything but sleep. And night begins
with the first beheading
of the jasmine, its captive fragrance
rid at last of burial clothes.
Li-Young Lee's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Pillow by Li-Young Lee )
- Nothing Wrong., Harold R Hunt Sr
- I Walk Not Alone, Harold R Hunt Sr
- Heaven Be You, Nicholas Nikolov
- Today somewhere, Harold R Hunt Sr
- The nasty people الهبابير, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- The not so cold wind blows, Bill Cantrell
- The Swing Door., Harold R Hunt Sr
- Unchampioning The Champion, Walter T Rambwi
- What they say!, Harold R Hunt Sr
- Blue, david kush
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