Archive > Vol. 12 no. 1
John Burnside
Poem on a line by Stanley Plumly
We lie in that other darkness, ourselves
The self is another darkness,
true enough,
and yet there are glimmers of light
at the foot of the stairs,
glimmers and chinks of gold
in the quiet dark
where a person I thought was lost
or no longer at home
is moving about in the cellar: moving about
in the shadow-work, opening boxes
of tinsel,
or last year’s jam,
moving in a darkness
he includes, so it always appears
there is more to the self than ourselves;
and this wandering light
is not quite the stranger
he seems: though I never see
his features, I can
hear him, in the slow part of the night,
murmuring under the stairs
to god knows whom,
and I listen a while,
excited to know he is there,
moved by a sound
like the murmur I heard as a child
rising through water,
rising through duckweed and moss
and telling me nothing,
only to make itself heard.