In the early evening, as now, a man is bending
over his writing table.
– Louise Glück, Poem
The lawn’s in front of him:
a sly blackbird pecks sideways
and a bent twig moves like a compass needle. He’s breathing hard
with that indrawn rasp of concentration,
this outgoing whistle. Through tense lips.
Beyond this, beyond the view from the window,
is that further view in which the man
leans against the glass towards
names and persons we don’t see.
He’s attached to them
by filaments of painful attention they can’t break:
they’re a puzzle to him
and he works to solve them. Like the small-footed beetle
balancing its way from grass-blade to grass-blade.