VIII.

A wasp rises to its papery

nest under the eaves

where it daubs

at the grey shape,

but seems unable

to enter its own house. 

- Jane Kenyon

X.

If only we could lose ourselves
in the wreckage of the moment! Forget
where we stand, dead center, and
look up, look up
track a falling star...

                             now you see it
                               
                                              now you don't








Rita Dove

I.

And you invited me in 

You're a part of me

pointing at two speckled bricks

Let’s be a wall that divides

six cedar candles

into five o’clock traffic

Let’s be a wall that defies

a faceless logic

of locked doors, unlocked fingers

patting the bench beside you
You belong right here
And you invited me in