purism :: vona groarke
The wind orchestrates
its theme of loneliness
and the rain
has too much glitter in it, yes.
They are like words, the wrong ones,
insisting I listen to sense.
But I too am obstinate.
I have white walls,
white curtained windows.
What need have I
of the night’s jet-black,
outlandish ornament?
What I am after
is silence
in proportion
to desire,
the way music plumbs
its surfaces
as straight words do
the air between them.
I begin to learn
the simple thing
burning through
to an impulse at once lovely
and given to love
that will not be refused.
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