The Apartment
Remember the Worcester apartment: third floor
of a
three-family, in the upper reaches of the elms.
Whole afternoons
could still in it, each room
oddly bright inside, like the bloom at the top of a
hollyhock.
.
I remember the apartment, third floor
“like a
tree-house” but the layout
forcing a certain passage, a tight
loop: entering into the living room, you turned
right through an arch, into the dining room, and then again
through another, smaller arch
into the kitchen in the back, crammed in
under crooked eaves.
Plotted like a child’s story (and
just then--) each room
offered a second door, a way onward: through the kitchen
right into the bedroom, through bedroom into the dark,
paneled hall, which ended, at the front door again. Afternoons
you could
sit
in the filtered light, obliterating
as a perfect argument.
Or watch the leaves rustle, but it was too weird, being up there,
eventually
like being a breath.
Like being only the thought
your mind was having.
.
The rain thumps against the house. It thumps
on the side of the house.
Thumps against it--
In a thicket, a damp grey rabbit blinks. That is to say,
in the pause before the boat responds--
I remember your apartment, more peculiar
by night (the candles
only worsened it, a flame disappearing in the apartment’s
distance, then reappearing,
like a fire at the far end of a field) and I moved through
quietly
like blood in an artery, except
there was nothing at the center, there was
no center there at all, only
the sound of you, turning over, and a car door
slammed
below. Often in those moments
I imagined the children.
And now they are beautiful, stretched on the floor, chins
in their perfect hands.
Now they are watching
this huge,
speckled TV-- silver TV
.
And Love, I hear you,
but I am tired (so tired!) of sky that comes down in snow
There must be something to believe
But I know there is nothing to believe
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