The Kitchen




I see everything

through a window that shines

in the tall

white cloud of a pitcher.

I witness the disorder of lids

and utensils,

wheels that will not roll,

carts that are broken.

I see so many unbuilt cities

on shelves, so many

rose gardens blooming in jars.

At four in the afternoon,

my candle is only

a shadow on a yellow bowl--

a narrow sun, but it reddens

a dish towel

hanging in its wooden harbor

like a memory of drying sails.

--by John Haines

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Pitcher
Graphite on paper