Think of any of several arched
colonnades to a cathedral,
how the arches
like fountains, say,
or certain limits in calculus,
when put to the graph-paper’s cross-trees,
never quite meet any promised heaven,
instead at their vaulted heights
falling down to the abruptly ending
base of the next column,
smaller, the one smaller
past that, at last
dying, what is
This is the way buildings do it.
You have seen them, surely, busy paring
the world down to what it is mostly,
proverb: so many birds in a bush.
Suddenly they take off, and at first
it seems your particular hedge itself
has sighed deeply,
that the birds are what come,
though of course it is just the birds
leaving one space for others.
After they’ve gone, put your ear to the bush,
listen. There are three sides: the leaves’
releasing of something, your ear where it
finds it, and the air in between, to say
equals. There is maybe a fourth side,
In my version of the Thousand and One Nights,
there are only a thousand,
Scheherazade herself is the last one,
for the moment held back,
for a moment all the odds hang even.
The stories she tells she tells mostly
to win another night of watching the prince
drift into a deep sleeping beside her,
the chance to touch one more time
his limbs, going,
gone soft already with dreaming.
When she tells her own story,
is how it starts.