Jun 192016

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.