This Wednesday, Press 53 gives to you this excellent poem by South Carolina poet laureate Marjory Heath Wentworth, taken from her collection The Endless Repetition of an Ordinary Miracle.
All Things are Palpable, None are Known
Like a cosmic buzz this
low pitched thrum, tuning
itself in the background
of every room I enter.
Unexpected, in the way
a smile can suddenly
spread across a stranger’s face,
but familiar also as
a train passing in the distance. It is
night, and memories attach
themselves to that sound
and the piece of moonlight
trying to push through a sky
cluttered with clouds. I am not
dreaming. There is rain
chiming the tin roof. Familiar
things seem distant. A stranger
once touched my hair
because it looked like the sun
was trapped there. And that was all.
It doesn’t matter where
this happened or how much light
was in the sky. I only remember
the words. After that, silence.