I heard there must be resolution, implied or otherwise,
even in the slightest poem. The light must traverse the sand
in the humblest haiku or no one will stir.
Conflict that went before contributes, by contrast, to peace;
conflict is implied by this tired arm that pleasantly rests;
but this midnight finds contrast a perfect abstraction
which registers nothing;
I note calmly the gleaming streets—
snow melting in rain under the streetlights,
the whole household long past gone to bed, not a sound,
nothing to stimulate, even the memory of you slumbering;
all forgiven, all fortunate now and resolved, no vibration,
no step on the stairs, no ache in the body or doubt in the mind,
absent all beginnings and regrets,
the reason for it all, clear
(the pure happiness of you)
a perfect clarity of no tone,
thought thinking neither of flesh nor bone—
so then why did I rise in the middle of the night
to write, to write, to write, to write?