I It was impossible to imagine, impossible Not to imagine; the blueness of it, the shadow it cast, Falling downward, filling the dark with the chill of itself, The cold of it falling out of itself, out of whatever idea Of itself it described as it fell; a something, a smallness, A dot, a speck, a speck within a speck, an endless depth Of smallness; a song, but less than a song, something drowning Into itself, something going, a flood of sound, but less Than a sound; the last of it, the blank of it, The tender small blank of it filling its echo, and falling, And rising unnoticed, and falling again, and always thus, And always because, and only because, once having been, it was… II It was the beginning of a chair; It was the gray couch; it was the walls, The garden, the gravel road; it was the way The ruined moonlight fell across her hair. It was that, and it was more. It was the wind that tore At the trees; it was the fuss and clutter of clouds, the shore Littered with stars. It was the hour which seemed to say That if you knew what time it really was, you would not Ask for anything again. It was that. It was certainly that. It was also what never happened—a moment so full That when it went, as it had to, no grief was large enough To contain it. It was the room that appeared unchanged After so many years. It was that. It was the hat She’d forgotten to take, the pen she left on the table. It was the sun on my hand. It was the sun’s heat. It was the way I sat, the way I waited for hours, for days. It was that. Just that.
Poem recommended by:
Why I chose this poem:
It’s a favorite poem because it’s beautiful, and sublime, and accessible, and makes me feel at least half a dozen seemingly contradictory things every time I return to it.