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Night House


The Night House,

by Billy Collins



Every day the body works in the fields of the world
mending a stone wall
or swinging a sickle through the tall grass--
the grass of civics, the grass of money--
and every night the body curls around itself
and listens for the soft bells of sleep.

But the heart is restless and rises
from the body in the middle of the night,
leaves the trapezoid bedroom
with its thick, pictureless walls
to sit by itself at the kitchen table
and heat some milk in a pan.

And the mind gets up, too, puts on a robe
and goes downstairs, lights a cigarette,
and opens a book on engineering.
Even the conscience awakens
and roams from room to room in the dark,
darting away from every mirror like a strange fish.

And the soul is up on the roof
in her nightdress, straddling the ridge,
singing a song about the wildness of the sea
until the first rip of pink appears in the sky.
Then, they all will return to the sleeping body
the way a flock of birds settles back into a tree,

talking to each other or themselves,
even through the heat of the long afternoons.
Which is why the body-- that house of voices--
sometimes puts down its metal tongs, its needle, or its pen

to listen to all its names being called
before bending again to its labor.



Here's a version you can download:

Download Night_House.rtf