Two Poems by Frances Wright, second place winner,
The College Alumni Society Prizes, 2009


Blueprinting



First, the vague shapes.
You must erase them, you must
remember: form steals in.

Thinking builds a furious nest.
Let it come, let it wring
istelf of all its clicking shutters.

Now the making, now the etchings
unconscious and organic.
The corridors unwinding.
Now the bedrooms.

Corners and surfaces emerge
like new moons. Let them
shed their black peels
slowly.

The roof, it will come
too soon. Too soon
the tidy quiet.

Do the porch on your way
out, but carefully. Here
you must pause--

A last glance for
your windows, the light
falling on a bare floor.



Tiredness


It's pulling you
back to the small cave,
lungs heavy with
the mud of sleep.
Balancing your head
at the breakfast table,

you press it into
the backs of your eyes.
It's laying its anchor
in your helpless arms.
It's wrapping you in its
blue tunnel. And in your
slow old age

it's walking right into the
room and whispering
in your ear with
canyon lips.