Things Unso
If the wind takes the house
it will be someone else’s
soon enough, and they too
will find it cold. What breaks
breaks open. After a house
one finds oneself in a wood,
and after too long in a wood
one finds oneself sullen
in heaven. Someone else lies
in my bed now so I can’t
sleep any better than they do.
To be lost is to be connected
interminably.
When they turn in my bed
the whole house turns, and I
turn, and the wind is emptied
through my own and theirs
and through a common door
to some place I do not know.
If things fall far enough apart,
they are all equally gone.
Seth Abramson is author of Northerners (Western Michigan University, 2011), winner of the 2010 Green Rose Prize, and The Suburban Ecstasies (Ghost Road Press, 2009). His poems have recently appeared in Poetry, American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he is currently a doctoral student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
