There are strings in the corners of every room,
and if I pull them when I am not looking, the world shrinks lower
and removes its grandeur from its aspect
and my tendencies towards living as if I were small,
as if I were looking for a key and not a doorway,
as if I were not trying to love for loving's sake,
to hold for holding on,
to know before what is to be known
is found by the wind and is gone,
fall and disintegrate
like the tail of a rhapsody
for cold and silver strings.
The top of the mountain becomes, I do not know,
but something other than the groaning task it is today.
The women of the world have hope and look at me again,
and marvel at the smallness of my hands that grasp the strings and pull.
Only ever were discoveries of man like melting snow,
freezing, disillusioning, and covering dreams in hiding as they go.
When did I think that this should be, when all the world,
in all its rooms, wears corners on its strings?
I pull and pull, and pulling find the world that we should know.
I discovered childhood, and that was years ago.