Second Nature, By RODNEY JONES

So quickly I forgot the things that brought me joy,

The way a blind man assumes the obvious dark

Of a familiar room, atlas of rug and banister,

The depths of stairs, the torque of glass knobs,

The durable links compounding out of ease,

So many strong and nurturing people that I loved

Dimmed among habits. I could see so clearly

Each scene of injury, places where known tempers

Flared and defiled, even the mentioned things

That never happened, the cycles of dogma and ultimatums,

The married woman’s secret upstart mind, and all

Of those who were like priests, in their celibate duties,

Like a field mouse wintering between the studs,

Like something thought of so long before it was written

That part of its body had fallen away--which is why

I woke at 3 a.m., festering some old rage at words,

But stood back, knowing the animal poised there

At the center of life, and, sealed inside of me,

The world’s unvarying tracks, all marks of shyness

That follow the natural shyness of the child,

The time of one man and one woman in youth,

And the drier kisses, the tongue receding in the jaw,

Not the song, but the humming after the song,

The barrier, the quiet knowledge, called for and unspoken.

From “Apocalyptic Narrative” by Rodney Jones. (Houghton Mifflin: $19.95) 1994 Reprinted by permission.