Gwen North Reiss

Out of the Crystal Wool of the Sky

The dead build their houses.

No stone doors or grass-tossed wreaths.

They like interiors and space

not too much furniture

just enough room to greet you,

to invite themselves in.

They have nothing against photographs.

While you puzzle over graphic patterns

in the old class pictures, they stand

in rows in front of the school’s

gothic entrance, pointed arch, every face

distinct, clear, young, squinting

against the sun.  And they love an index—

alphabetical, last name first.  Letters?

They take a running jump into

that crinkled bed of words that once

looped out of hand and pen.  A poem

is a station they hurry toward,

express stop. They love the space

after the line.  Place to be.  And in

the old films, what they’re doing is wandering

around.  You won’t necessarily see them.

They might be several blocks away

from the action, admiring

the elms, the way they looked

before the blight.

© Gwen North Reiss

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