Face In The Window
I am a modest house, a house solely
by Bill Knott
notable for the fact I lived here once.
Its brass plaque depicts an oxygen eye
in which two pupils of hydrogen dance.
Downstairs is where I lit fires whose insights
with approach-velocity froze me, then
singed off into flame. This always happened when
I came close to a truth. Months passed. Years. Nights.
Shall I accommodate myself again,
a humble aquarium of lordly
thumbs, some fin de species? Of course each word
the blackout-moth mutters to my keyboard
shows the snowiest letter on this page is “I”—
must I now plumb its one remaining pane?