The Luminous Hall of Today

When the reader was small
Terrible things happened—

To her or to someone—
The poem can be certain

At least of that, at least
As much as anything—

And so the poem wonders—
Why loathe uncertainty?

Reader, you will find here
Frailty and confusion

Doubt and repetition—
The convict escaping

From terms of conviction—
Maybe hounds are baying—

Gytrash and Moddey Dhoo—
Maybe these woods are swamps—

But if terrible things
Are true—if escapees

Are caught in most cases—
Still, look at this clearing—

This empty hour between
All that’s happened to you—

Convictions in pursuit—
The armed guards of gold rules—

It’s green and it’s humming
And no one knows you’re here—

The ground is luminous
When the sun reaches it—

These birds are not species
Singing in the shadows

But player pianos
For holy messages

From everything unknown
That may or may not be—

Rest awhile on these stones
In the way of all things

As plain sky lifts its hall
Of sweet hesitancy