Recitation

He did not fall then, blind upon a road,

nor did his lifelong palsy disappear.

He heard no voice, save the familiar,

ceaseless, self-interrogation

of the sore perplexed. The kettle steamed

and whistled. A heavy truck downshifted

near the square. He heard a child calling,

and heard a mourning dove intone its one

dull call. For all of that, his wits remained

quite dim. He breathed and spoke the words he read.

If what had been long dead then came alive,

that resurrection was by all appearances

metaphorical. The miracle arrived

without display. He held a book, and as he read

he found the very thing he’d sought. Just that.

A life with little hurt but one, the lucky gift

of a raveled book, a kettle slow to heat,

and time enough therefore to lift the book

and find in one slight passage the very wish

he dared not ask aloud, until, that is,

he spoke the words he read.

Source: Philokalia: New and Selected Poems (Zoo Press, 2002)