Summer 1989 • Vol. XI No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1989 |

Bill the Landlord Learns to Fly

He is learning, we all are learning for thousands of years, he tells me, and it still is slow. For thousands of years we are raising up the body into space, the body made of space, rejoicing in the weight and thrust of sound, with new translations of Vedanta, mantras written down in caves--new patience to sit with folded legs and opened lips-- to be a rosebud, or a branch that lifts and then lets go and keeps on rising. He speaks to me from the southwest eave of the house where he clings balanced on an aluminum ladder. I balance below; overhead he is an apparition in white goggles and a hat, a paper mask on his nose and mouth. He is sweeping down the pigeons' nests and nailing up chicken wire to keep them out. This is the last one. He waited until the chicks flew; ten thousand rebirths in hell for a pigeon, he guesses, knocked to the dust like the victims of time. The body is space between molecules, space inside atoms; the distance between the electron and the nucleus magnified equ

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece



Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More

Breaking

By Cynthia Huntington

He is learning, we all are learning for thousands of years, he tells me, and it still is slow. For thousands of years we are raising up the body into […]

Subscribe

Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.

Donate

With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.