Listen to Lewis Turco read his poem "The Habitation" --
There is no way out.
Now the windows have begun
to cloud over: cobwebs, dust.
The stairs and floors are unstable —
the hours nibble the foundations.
In the bedrooms, sheets
have begun to yellow, spreads
to fray. coverlets have worn
to the colors of late autumn,
thin as a draft sifting at the sill.
On the kitchen floor
crumbs and rinds lie recalling
the old feasts. In the larder
preserves rust among speckled jars;
the bins yawn; shadow sates the cupboards.
The fire has been damped
at the hearth: its bed of ash
sinks in pit-holes over brick.
The ceiling snows on the carpet —
Rejoice! Rejoice! The house is failing!
Take Heart: Poems from Maine eduted by Wesley McNair
Listen to Lewis Turco read his poem "The Street" --
In the street the wind gutters, moving papers
and leaves into heaps or sworls.
The scraps of the year make some kind of pattern,
some calligramme of their own,
beyond the imprint of new snow.
Lightly, on the flourishes of silence,
on the heaps of leaf,
the snow touches and explores.
Finally, in folds of stillness,
flakes begin to form wrinkles of crystal.
By the time dusk deepens,
the wrinkles will be pure streams
drowning whatever is old.
Then, in the night, in the darkest hours,
the road will be a river of snow
aiming toward morning, lost at either end
in the curbs of vision.