The White Room

　　 by Charles Simic

　　 The obvious is difficult

　　 To prove. Many prefer

　　 The hidden. I did， too.

　　 I listened to the trees.

　　 They had a secret

　　 Which they were about to

　　 Make known to me--

　　 And then didn't.

　　 Summer came. Each tree

　　 On my street had its own

　　 Scheherazade. My nights

　　 Were a part of their wild

　　 Storytelling. We were

　　 Entering dark houses，

　　 Always more dark houses，

　　 Hushed and abandoned.

　　 There was someone with eyes closed

　　 On the upper floors.

　　 The fear of it， and the wonder，

　　 Kept me sleepless.

　　 The truth is bald and cold，

　　 Said the woman

　　 Who always wore white.

　　 She didn't leave her room.

　　 The sun pointed to one or two

　　 Things that had survived

　　 The long night intact.

　　 The simplest things，

　　 Difficult in their obviousness.

　　 They made no noise.

　　 It was the kind of day

　　 People described as "perfect."

　　 Gods disguising themselves

　　 As black hairpins， a hand-mirror，

　　 A comb with a tooth missing？

　　 No！ That wasn't it.

　　 Just things as they are，

　　 Unblinking， lying mute

　　 In that bright light--

　　 And the trees waiting for the night.

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