The universe is mostly made of thought,
a few weirdly simple mathematical formulas
known and still unknown.
Sentient beings are numberless
and I promise to save them,
when you are old and I am a story.
It is all contained
in a few words
written and unwritten.
Winter, thank God. I will wander
from room to room, window to window,
a fictional person gazing at fictional skies.
the booky wood;
beware abrupt attack
by large packs
or ravenous back-scratchers:
I don’t even know what that means.
Moth light, north night;
Fate and its opposite,
ruined bird’s nest hair.
Franz Wright's Earlier Poems, comprising the complete texts of his first four books, is now available from Knopf.