I was just on my way up to bed
When I stopped to turn off the last light
At the bottom of the stairs
And lingered at the shelf of books
Lit starkly from above:
Kunitz looking in his garden,
Adrienne Rich on the cold mountain,
Billy Collins at his table by the window;
Poets on the plains, in the cities,
All in the places where they unfold,
And because I was hoping for
A nightcap on the day, just a bit more
Beyond bourbon and an empty plate
and another sleep, I stood and opened
William Jay Smith, The Tin Can,
With my bare feet on the wooden floor
And only the sharp circle of light
On the poem in the dark:
Smith in his New England anchorhold
With all his mind’s desire arriving.
The poem poured out, poured all around
As I was standing rooted,
A rushing sound inside the very can.
The night hung fire, and when I
Turned off the light and felt for the stairs,
Tomorrow now more promising,
The page lingered yellow-green in my retina.
I carried it up to my bed, my wife asleep,
Stars dancing in the expanding can,
The can silent after my surrounding.
~~~~~~~~~~
Douglas Logan
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