In a Room with Many Windows 

Jane Hirshfield 

In a room with many windows

some thoughts slide past uncatchable, ghostly.

Three silent bicyclists. Slowly, a woman on crutches.

It is like the night you slept out on the sandy edge of a creek bank,

feeling the step of some light, clawed thing on your palm,

crossing to drink. You were nothing to it.

Hummock. Earth clump. Root knob wild in the dark.

Like that thirsty creature, to you.

You could guess it, but you can’t name it.