encountering the poet laureate (and her grandson) in SF

merits a bit of text:

A Hundred Bolts of Satin

by Kay Ryan

All you
have to lose
is one
connection
and the mind
uncouples
all the way back.
It seems
to have been
a train.
There seems
to have been
a track.
The things
that you
unpack
from the
abandoned cars
cannot sustain
life: a crate of
tractor axles,
for example,
a dozen dozen
clasp knives,
a hundred
bolts of satin—
perhaps you
specialized
more than
you imagined.


Years ago, this poem got it all started for me. A dear friend pointed out that it's a bit dark, and he may be right, but there's always something to see even then. She was very nice. Her grandson, too.