The Windows (Speech-lit Islands) by Paul Hoover

as if for the first time

you recognize the grass

its greenness uncanny

in trying to be green

as if for the first time

you open a letter

that had fallen

through the door

its message unique to you

had you been

as perhaps you seemed

the neighbor

the one whose name was yours

who finally joined the army

had you in fact a country

a life to give

wife and family

as if for a while

you could read the signs

remembered to unlearn

how the wind feels exactly

going up your spine

sensed the wheat sinking

into the ground nearby

the whiteness of milk

its mystical skirt uplifted

miss meat and miss gravy

as if the language

were smudged with words

speech-lit islands

that don’t submerge in meaning

as if light itself

were never in doubt

on the question

of transcendence

bees sing bells ring

in the ear’s black window

you whisper to the glass

its past in sand

step back please

a sentence is passing

someone’s calling

someone’s raining

door’s creaking contradictions

what bride is not disheveled

by all the world’s scissors

make-shape shiftings

been a long time

since you wrote yourself in stone

auto-lithographic

[I] seems to be alone

[I] suffers in a crowd

but not a yellow room

in not a yellow town

everyone’s on loan

but someone here knows

why nimble people cry

a bullet makes you die

and then there’s you

absent sometimes laughing

as if at last

there is no non-journey

across the whole word

what are you thinking

conjured of a god

pears you’ll never taste

lines not written

what you know you are

you’ll never be again