Collected Poems of John Holmes
Holmes, John A., Jr.
The furniture in its accustomed shape
Is standing quiet, the same rug is here;
The mirror, where I look for cool escape,
Repeats the wall beyond me flat and, clear,
Repeats the two friends who are visiting,
But not myself, nor what someone just said,
And not, thank God, the sudden secret thing
That overwhelms me, voice and heart and head.
It is as if a lost bird in the room
Beat at the walls to find a wide way out,
As if a flame lighted the corner gloom,
Or quick on quietness there rang a shout:
I turned, though nothing real was round me of you,
And answered, "Oh, I love you, love you, love you.