The Thing Is
by Ellen Bass
Sonnet [Laughing below, the unimagined room]
Laughing below, the unimagined room
in unimagined mouths, a turning mood
speaking itself the way a fulling should
overspilling into something’s dome,
some moment’s edging over into bloom.
What is a happening but conscious cloud
seeking its edge in a wound or word
pellucidity describing term
as boundary, body, violated bourne
no sounding center, circumscription turn.
Mother of mirrors, angel of the acts,
do all the sighing breathing clicking wilds
summon the same blue breadth the sense subtracts,
the star suborning in its ruptured fields.