Walking downtown, past twenty stories about
what used to be a pasture, without the shadow
of a single tree, I am wondering how I could leave
the casements of my life wide open, screens hanging
from their frames by a screw, how to let the morning
come dragging in whenever it damn well pleases,
without a question for it on my lips, how to break down
those years I have stacked around myself like mud bricks,
to find the humid afternoon we rode our bicycles
down the long path. The air was full of lavender and ash.
Leave the walls unfinished, so the scent of wild onion drifts
like autumn leaves when the neighbor mows, so the outside
might find a way into the tiny rooms I inhabit, amber
sunlight like a river, swallowing everything in its flow,
sweeping motes of dust collecting on my shelves,
littered by those who come and go, their rubber soles
scarcely marking the floorboards. Strip the insulation,
handful by powdery handful, crumble the insulae
of my loneliness, its ceiling blocks my silver glimpse,
the skyline contours of the other world.
1 Response to High Rise