Terrance Hayes selected this poem for the Aug. 18, 2017 issue of The New York Times.
A typewritten version of this poem, dated Aug. 14, 1964, appears near the back of Copper Canyon Press’s 50th-anniversary reissue of ‘‘The Lice,’ […]
The Lice, according to its publisher, is
This fiftieth annivers...
How easily the ripe grain
Leaves the husk
At the simple turning of the planet
There is no season
That requires us
Masters of forgetting
Threading the eyeless rocks with
A narrow light
In which ciphers wake and evil
Gets itself the face of the norm
And contrives cities
The Widow rises under our fingernails
In this sky we were born we are born
And you weep wishing you werе numbers
You multiply you cannot be found
You grievе
Not that heaven does not exist but
That it exists without us
You confide
In images in things that can be
Represented which is their dimension you
Require them you say This
Is real and you do not fall down and moan
Not seeing the irony in the air
Everything that does not need you is real
The Widow does not
Hear you and your cry is numberless
This is the waking landscape
Dream after dream after dream walking away through it
Invisible invisible invisible
The Widow was written by W.S. Merwin.
The Widow was produced by The New Yorker.
W.S. Merwin released The Widow on Fri May 13 1966.