MARGARET GIBSON
East Window, Moon
It shadows the bed with a lattice of light,
this moon whose ridge pole sinks beneath its own weight,
rising slowly, laboriously, late.
I’m in a new house, unfamiliar to my feet,
strange to fingers that touch the walls uncertainly
as I walk through the dark of it at night.
Outside, different trees, different stones on the path.
Closer to death I want to know great faith and great
doubt.
What no one taught me, that’s what I want to
remember,
immersed like Blake, his inner eye
a storehouse for the infinite
flashings the fontanel let in, before it knit the bone door shut.
I have always been alone, and I have never been alone.
What I used to call the self is a windowing
of light
in the flood plain of the boundless. ![](../../images/bug_print.gif)
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