The Isle Is Full of Noises


What if, tomorrow, after your coffee
after your Wheaties, while you're buttoning your clothes–
a dove descends and inspects your chimney?
   (What if it doesn't?)
      Expect nothing. Suppose.

What if, while putting your room in order,
after you've stashed every thing where it goes–
you see that your mirror's haloed in foxfire?
   (What if it isn't?)
      Expect nothing. Suppose.

What if, during your smoke on the parkbench,
after your cogitations, before your doze–
who should kiss you but a leftover virgin?
   (What if she doesn't?)
      Expect nothing. Suppose.

What if, suddenly, deep in a bookstore,
a ghost voice comes leap-frogging over the rows–
the voice says, "I love you." It's your father's.
   (What if it isn't?)
      Expect nothing. Suppose.

What if, one evening, watering your bean patch,
kite-caught, you quicken: you know what God knows–
the salt of your tears withers the sproutlings–
   What if it doesn't?
      Suppose. Suppose. Suppose.


Sam Hudson.