Rae Gouirand
Box as metaphor, bowl as metaphor,
one can’t help but compare—
—I look around my house
at what it contains, which is
mostly open things, cross
the valley I live in to find the place
endlessness reforms.
Words like precise for the one,
free for the other,
and as I put myself to sleep
it seems meaningful that I should
hold the two
in that kind of conversation
few living things accommodate:
incomplete, yet outside
of us enough, something of
our inward holds,
more parallel than comparable.