--- P A U L   G I B B O N S

                        -- for Italo and Brec


It starts with a chickadee calling from the static
the pines make in the wind.  The call
is like the only thing living inside
the only thing living.  But that is just
a lark, like separating the first Russian doll
and going on until at some point the halves
of the doll at the end of the line of nested bodies
part briefly before they settle, and you are
the visitor to the inside of a pocket of dark
that does not entirely disappear
but diffuses like perfume when a house
empties of its guests, the dishes migrate
back to their cupboards, the bed covers fold back,
and a first breath of settling in for the night
is pulled out of the invisible.  And some might ask
how it's done.  How long something hidden
can cling inside the lung of a doll,
spending its slight friction to hold
fast.  Someone will not ask but instead open
at the sound of one hand clapping, or at what it's like
to think about thinking, to talk about talk,
to pick up the book which reads, "You are about
to begin reading. . . ." Someone might think
of a better way: place one mirror opposite the other,
raise one hand and infinity
responds.  That is no lark.  It is like reading
about a call from the static the pines
make in the wind.  A call that is like the only thing
living inside the only thing . . .