Prospector

There is no looking out from within.
There is the fond rearranging of the furniture
By children one rainy day, hanging a blanket

From the backs of chairs, then hiding
Underneath the magic tent to whisper
And peer out at the familiar, imagining

It all wild and different, unbounded,
A strange prospect, a haunting
Form of secretive delight. It's not there.

It's in here. Old writers conversing
About what makes the better corner
Free from external distractions,

The cafe, the closet, the cabin,
The bare desk in the cork-lined attic,
The anachronistic stone hut in the forest,

Forget themselves in their little tents
Of words woven by long-dead aunties.
Bone is the roof of the world.