From the Fishouse

In the brain, a silver window
Where the sky evaporates—

Then condenses to an enveloped name
Sealed with an unsigned letter.

Dickinson’s house: a breeze coming from the inside
Sounds bury themselves deep in the wood-work.

When a Scholar pauses by a closed door
She may not be listening to music, but to the door

What lingers in the letter, loosening or found
Sky-name—wood-wind—syllable—sound