Forties Flick

from Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (1975)

        The shadow of the Venetian blind on the painted wall,
	Shadows of the snake-plant and cacti, the plaster animals,
	Focus the tragic melancholy of the bright stare
	Into nowhere, a hole like the black holes in space.
	In bra and panties she sidles to the window:
	Zip!  Up with the blind.  A fragile street scene offers itself,
	With wafer-thin pedestrians who know where they are going.
	The blind comes down slowly, the slats are slowly tilted up.
        Why must it always end this way?
	A dais with woman reading, with the ruckus of her hair
	And all that is unsaid about her pulling us back to her, with her
	Into the silence that night alone can’t explain.
	Silence of the library, of the telephone with its pad,
	But we didn’t have to reinvent these either:
	They had gone away into the plot of a story,
	The “art” part—knowing what important details to leave out
	And the way character is developed.  Things too real
	To be of much concern, hence artificial, yet now all over the page,
	The indoors with the outside becoming part of you
	As you find you had never left off laughing at death,
	The background, dark vine at the edge of the porch.