So many doors through which New England disappears. No safety here amid Bed & Breakfast Bibles pilfered from our drawers, Dante's Nineteenth Canto buried in a thrift shop behind the local church -- the feet of Blake's inverted man bursting to flames. Nothing else changes, only flowers rearranged near calendars hung on rusty nails, holy discarded by immaculate maids like tinder for the fire -- the town's off-season stillness akin to that lighthouse etched in stone above our twin beds. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BURNING DAWN by HAYDEN CARRUTH CONTRA MORTEM: THE CHILD by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE RETURN (2) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO EMILIE BIGELOW HAPGOOD - PHILANTHROPIST by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO GALLANT FRANCE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO HENRY LINCOLN JOHNSON - LAWYER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |