The Window

This is a poem by Diane di Prima. By no means do I have a hugely discerning taste, and I'm not very familiar at all with di Prima's poetry. I need to read more of her work before saying whether I generally like her or not, but this poem caught my eye for several reasons. Usually I'm not into poetry that's so abstract and sparse that it could be interpreted in a million-and-one different ways, but this has some good things going for it, and perhaps you will think so too.

"The Window"

you are my bread

and the hairline

noise

of my bones

you are almost

the sea

you are not stone

or molten sound

I think

you have no hands

this kind of bird flies backward

and this love

breaks on a windowpane

where no light talks

this is not time

for crossing tongues

(the sand here

never shifts)

I think

tomorrow

turned you with his toe

and you will

shine

and shine

unspent and underground

 -From This Kind of Bird Flies Backward (1958)