Heather McHugh (20 August 1948 / San Diego, California)

In the field is a house
of wood. A window of the house
contains the field.

You can't see far
with a sun in the sky,
with a living-room lamp

at night. Locality is all
you light, and you, as single
as a bed. But there's

no end to dark. The bed is in the clearing
and the clearing's in the wind; the world
is a world among others. Now your cell-stars split.