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.