Here are the lines my mind fathomed.
They are tar-dark. I wrote them on pages
Breathless and blank, as beneath water
Men’s minds are blank but for needing
A next breath. Sir, turn
This page and the thick door opens
By growing thinner, ever thinner,
Until the last page turns and is turned
Into air. Don’t knock. The ocean
Ceaseless on my little craft, and I am
Asking you, Will my craft hold? I send
To you on a paper-thin hull. Don’t
I’m in there. I breathe on one lung
For both lungs’ air; my hand is wet
With knocking my knuckle to wave, and
Though the wave opens, I am never
Let in. I promised you the deep wave
’s inner chamber, I’m sorry.
Do you see, Sir—
How the crest of a book builds at the binding
And finally spills over on to no shore?
Don’t knock. I will ask the water
to open for you
If you’ll stop. Don’t knock,
don’t knock, Sir—
Oh, it is not you. My wife’s at my
And knows the wood won’t open from
Wood to. I must seal this craft’s
In place, and voyage it over ocean to you.
“Come in.” She’s knocking.
Her hand’s on my wooden shore, door—
I go. Send word, send word. If you don’t,