With eyes at the back of our heads
we see a mountain
not obstructed with woods but laced
here and there with feathery groves.
The doors before us a facade
that perhaps has no house in back of it
are too narrow, and one is set high
with no doorsill. The architect sees
the imperfect proposition and
turns eagerly to the knitter.
Set it to rights!
The knitter begins to knit.
For we want
to enter the house, if there is a house,
to pass through the doors at least
into whatever lies beyond them,
we want to enter the arms
of the knitted garment. As one
is re-formed, so the other,
in proportion.
When the doors widen
when the sleeves admit us
the way to the mountain will clear,
the mountain we see with
eyes at the back of our heads, mountain
green, mountain
cut of limestone, echoing
with hidden rivers, mountain
of short grass and subtle shadows.
Thank you for posting this poem. I wish I understood it better - maybe after more readings. Sometimes I write. I like some of my own poetry but don't share much. I am currently a live-in grandmother in MT with a solitary husband left behind in Denver to work. I read a little of the poetry my husband likes - including Levertov. It's terrible, but I like writing more than reading. Susan
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