Poem: All my Telling
the darkness that I cannot keep
from coming in the house comes in
as much as asking me again
and then again where I have been
wanting to see what I’ve become,
to know before I’m breathless, dumb
and in me is as what is out.
Tell me, tell me what you are!–
but all my telling ends in doubt;
I know no answer worth the giving,
none, but to answer life by living.
Here, look here, my words fall stem
by breaking stem each saying this
and this and this is what I am!
Before the closing of the year
I think that I can almost hear
the earth recalling every stone
to earth, and every blade of grass
and leaf – each name given but my own,
asked and asked for–come look.
Look again before I close the book.
April 5, 2006
All my telling