What you cannot see through those windows
beyond the bare hill
is the hand resting on the table,
is the man lying still
on the bed, is the vague gesture
of the young woman in the hallway
as she remembers something that happened yesterday,
is the mouse hesitating under the draining board,
is the twelve year old boy putting on a record
of Wiener Blut that he once saw
his parents waltzing to.
All that you see is the all-but-naked child
on the all-but-naked hill against a naked sky,
as if what you could not see were the question
and she the reply.
Source: Poetry (February 2008).
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This poem originally appeared in the February 2008 issue of Poetry magazine