to Michael Field

I have built a wall of black bricks, alternating rows
of headers and stretchers, English Bonded. Some are plain,
others highly ornamented. All that shows are black blocks,
laid on lime cement. On the other side I’ve painted pictures.
Strange: every time I try to knock it down, I end up
laying yet another line. Stand close and listen through

this crack.

THIS IS NOT WHAT I WANT TO SAY AT ALL: MY

POLYMORPHOUS, EVANESCENT IMAGINATION

LACKS A VOICE, SO I MUST BUILD A WALL TO

REPRESENT UNSPEAKABLE, UNREQUITABLE

THINGS: SIGNS, DREAMS, WANTS, MOODS, NEEDS.

Let me explain.

There is no Katherine, no Edith here. No one’s singing.
No one sits on Lethe’s shore, nor stares right back at censure.
Let me explain again. Two oceans, ten thousand miles,
one continent (counting north and south as one) separate
two circles moving us from bed to breakfast, home to work,
wakefulness to sleep. No intersection, only black blocks.

Listen through this crack. Let me explain.