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Hear Erica
Funkhouser read this poem (in RealAudio).
I've come back a few times,
seen you hurrying away
and, once, seen your eyes,
the green of night.
Hope for this, hope for that --
who is free from such nonsense?
The small changes in the dirt
at your entrance,
the disappearance of grass:
I note these in your absence.
You should just stay where you are.
You and your dark house
will grow together.
You'll reach the walls,
they'll welcome your fur.
I'll know you're in there somewhere,
foraging invisibly.
Good for you, then.
Keep home.
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Browse back issues of The Atlantic that have appeared on the Web. From September 1995 to the present, the archive is essentially complete, with the exception of a few articles, the online rights to which are held exclusively by the authors.
See All Back Issues: September 1995
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The 11 Days Zuckerberg Spent as One of the 40 Richest Humans
What Critics Get Wrong About Creative Cities
Great Moments in the History of Boondoggles
The Pseudo-Suburbanist's Dilemma
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