William Howard Gass (July 30, 1924 – December 6, 2017)
I have met with some mischance, wings withering, as Plato says obscurely, and across the breadth of Ohio, like heaven on a table, I’ve fallen as far as the poet, to the sixth sort of body, this house in B, in Indiana, with its blue and gray bewitching windows, holy magical insides. Great thick evergreens protect its entry. And I live in. Lose in the corn rows, I remember feeling just another stalk, and thus this country takes me over in the way I occupy myself when I am well … completely—to the edge of both my house and body. No one notices, when they walk by, that I am brimming in the doorways … I dreamed my lips would drift down your back like a skiff on a river. I’d follow a vein with the point of my finger, hold your bare feet in my naked hands.