Obviously, we can't be Vona Groarke today, or any day, unless we want to get all Being John Malekovich, so, let's be her poem.
Vona Groarke
The wind orchestrates
its theme of loneliness
and the rain
has too much glitter in it, yes.
They are like words, the wrong ones,
insisting I listen to sense.
But I too am obstinate.
I have white walls,
white curtained windows.
What need have I
of the night's jet-black,
outlandish ornament?
What I am after
is silence
in proportion
to desire,
the way music plumbs
its surfaces
as straight words do
the air between them.
I begin to learn
the simple thing
burning through
to an impulse at once lovely
and given to love
that will not be refused.
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