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More poems by Li-Young LeeLi-Young Lee | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Li-Young LeeBooks by Li-Young Lee

This Hour And What Is Dead

Li-Young Lee

Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking
through the bare rooms over my head,
opening and closing doors.
What could he be looking for in an empty house?
What could he possibly need there in heaven?
Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches?
His love for me feels like spilled water
running back to its vessel.

At this hour, what is dead is restless
and what is living is burning.

Someone tell him he should sleep now.

My father keeps a light on by our bed
and readies for our journey.
He mends ten holes in the knees
of five pairs of boy's pants.
His love for me is like his sewing:
various colors and too much thread,
the stitching uneven. But the needle pierces
clean through with each stroke of his hand.

At this hour, what is dead is worried
and what is living is fugitive.

Someone tell him he should sleep now.

Added: 25 Feb 2002 | Last Read: 16 Jan 2018 8:13 PM | Viewed: 7972 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/2815/ | Viewed on 16 January 2018.
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