for Jean ValentineThe Sailor cannot see the North—but knows the Needle can.
—Emily Dickinson
You set the needle down on a page
and the whole room trembled
The fireflies flashed in the periphery
The air singed as if from distant fires
Delivering the news, the shock of recognition
New depths of love that we might come to know—
*
That music that so enthralled you—
you held it close enough for us to hear
you held it close enough for us to hear
Now we have the shells the casings
emptied and scattered strewn
emptied and scattered strewn
along beachfronts at the end of a terrible year
To hear you now we must hold
the whole world up to our ears—
the whole world up to our ears—
Read on . . .