I know little of weaving
but that I can pull together these strings of loneliness
and fashion some sort of shroud
to drape across my empty shelves.
The hills cradle my house and my half-empty bed, but
I am no more a fixed point than love.
What is there in a landscape that says settle:
break open this earth? Some man
walked these hills with his one book,
tore names from each page:
Homer, Troy, Ithaca. He couldn’t have imagined
it would one day become
communes, trailer parks, gun shops,
the crazy, the poor, the free.
But he was right about one thing:
people will wait a long time for a hero.
At night in bed I am unraveling.
They’ve built a highway outside my window.
Headlights all night trace my blank wall.
The moon is a wide-open O of pleasure.
My neighbors are making love.
There is inertia in patience.
I cannot expect to find him in my bed some night
pulling cobwebs from my hair.
I’m the one with a map.
My speedometer has a wise old face.