Sonnet: Just to Say
If reading in the dark is ideal, why should I want
to understand? I am entirely edge now, ready
and waiting, a continent adrift on a sea of magma.
The door to the page unopen, undifferentiated
quantities, each bleeding into another. The lap cuts
strides wherever it goes. I’ll read any poem
with Norway in its title. Turn on the lights and then
turn on the lights. No sound to assign, or arraign.
A cave in the room, its library of books, pages dog-
eared for emphasis. In writing, while taking the
greatest task, something remains to decipher
the heap of Japanese novels by his bed. Equivalent
rejoinders to those gloomy forests of Indiana,
their darkness ideal for the reading of your words.
Hal
Halvard Johnson
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