Story
bricolage from the NYTBR

In the American parlor, a momentary nostalgia
for old homes bright with detailed objects
and words adequate to represent the interior:
screen, chaise, keys in place, devotion,
a modest reserve, the meaning-giving law.
Now, with avalanches of information,

we must set forth for shelter, safety, human
shape, eye contact, purpose, pantries.
Hopelessly removed from the prime object,
we must interpret weak signals from
whatever nature throws our way, and less
than fully controlled, in a system embedded

in a system, discern the way of the world.
There’s an even more ancient story: of flecks
of clay in the estuaries of an evolving earth
where life as we know it today rose to more
hospitable planes, raining down from time
to time, causing delight in our ranks.

When we tell the stories, we are fighting
for our lives, and in the break and tide
of rhythm, the pulling for breath and cries
of words leaping to sensibility, may begin
to take on form — as when a city is founded
and a quarter, a portion, is allotted to promise.
What harm to thrill to sudden cloudbursts,
the utmost pressure for fresh meaning?

First published in Green (Milkweed Press, 1989), revised 2024
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