Tucson: A Poem about WoodAuthor(s): Jon AndersonSource: The Iowa Review, Vol. 9, No. 1 (Winter, 1978), p. 24Published by: University of IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20158849 .

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Tucson: A Poem About Wood Jon Anderson

Jesus, the wind blew, hard, for the 1st time in ten hot days tonight. We opened windows & doors. I tried to read.

I wished my son, 3, was awake so we could have perfectly talked.

I don't start to talk or read the way I start to write.

My best friend, who I'm pleased to live beside, & three young men are enclosing his porch next door:

Four upright beams, a top, then a window or space for it?

Wood. I would like to have helped that fragile, gathering shape,

Especially to have hammered the frame that will hold glass, But then I wouldn't have seen it, or my friends, working.

I write for something to do, so I do it; It tells me how I am or it sometimes lies.

I hate it, I do it for pleasure, I'm not

Even part of it. Though it's something like

A frame & I see through it. I see you carrying on.

I see the part of your labor that must be your pleasure.

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