It was the bed.
He stared at it for
– how long?
The thoughts rolled in his mind
Of all the emptiness it carried.
The empty people, the cold barren sheets.
What would he do if the emptiness
Lasted forever?
Why would it have to? Yet,
His heart did not seem empty;
Filled to capacity by his companions,
The rapid beating, the pulse
Of their lives within his own being.
Perhaps the only love he’d know would be
The gift of a love stronger than that which he’d settle for
In his bed.
Maybe that was all he ever needed.
I like this a whole lot, there is a strange sort of abutment going on that keeps a searching tone; I mean a sort of unsureness as a device, not as a sophmoric consequence (your familairity with the poem seems obvious). At any rate, it reminded me of some of Hass's more somber poems, that despite the somber nature, the searching tone leaves one not with merely existential angst but with the possibility of hope. Good stuff, it is my experiencet hat poems written after dreams are the best -if not the rawest, closest to the emotion.
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