Tuesday, August 2, 2011

A poem

Home

He's got a deep, abiding respect
verging on idol worship
for where things end up.
There are unopened letters
in his refrigerator, a fake
fingernail in the soapdish,
shoes everyplace.
These things, and many more
leavings, fragments, balancing
reminders of a breeze
from a slammed door--
configurations of sanctified loose ends--
have become the living net
above which he performs
the movements that make
the clock work.

             ~Viggo Mortensen
               

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