Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Franz Wright


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.

Thirteen Lines

Beware, beware
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;
March skies,
future goodbyes.
Fate and its opposite,
hope. Her
ruined bird’s nest hair.
That’s better.

Franz Wright's Earlier Poems, comprising the complete texts of his first four books, is now available from Knopf.