I

The brain knocks me, I suppose. I never stay, lately, to look.
I saw it all beforehand, cleaned out, gone.

I saw no longer, finding it enough to believe the object
of search would turn up somewhere or other.

I talked little since I knew to say no more—
a subject for calm intensity when quite silent.

II

the brain meshes minutes
straining like wildfire
to stop time
by a perceptible shrug

and the list
was no longer there
held no further information
had no intention of thrusting
heard not a word
knew nothing

there
a calm intensity of life
a sudden gaze
silent

III

Where’s your worth?
—straining, losing
How do you know this?
—by a pause
Do you know a little?
—nothing
Do you know home?
—no more
It is possible you know a richness of tint, a gaze.

“Why has it taken me until now to read Daniel Deronda? I am loving it. In college, I read Mill on the Floss, and loved it. Twice I’ve read Middlemarch, and loved it. I liked Adam Bede, Silas Marner, and Romola. I’ve made a three-part poem with three erasures from page 143. Maybe I’ve done something big and sectioned with Daniel Deronda because of its massiveness and complexity, and because of wanting to spend time with Mary Anne Evans’s language.” –Pamela Hobart Carter