Today my wonderful used bookstore find
Winds its way out of backpack; The Actual World[i]
Its name, and it in lies
Poetry that should, actually, seize the world.
We see what the poet paints: the October Farm while we
follow the Charles; The Hen House and Shed at the Museum.
And then on Binney Ave we sit bolt upright
At the shift to Christmas Eve with three
Hungarians! Kings, thieves, Catholics, heroes.
Then nothing is the same.
Still further in we go to
Winter dinner filled with beets
And greens and smoke to the sky
And, no doubt, wide eyes at all the
Dancing and those paper rings.
Finally out we walk in line
To mushroomed woods with
Mother and gypsy and time.
Ah, the pain. The pain of beautiful words
That bring to us our misplaced joy then stay.
They stay to send the day away unwittingly, unknowingly,
Because with them we see just a corner of heaven:
Here, in the Actual World.
[i] Funkhouser, Erica. The Actual World. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997.
CSS 8 November 2016