- The Room with the Stained Glass
How inordinate is
the dust that flutters in,
casting visible rays across the
monumental space—
beaming like those forgotten spirits
hung by the day and the
rose, wishing to rise.
- The Room with the Small Window
It was upstairs where
no one had gone in for years.
The floorboards would moan,
the caking walls asking what time it was:
“Is it when the poppies bloom?”
The answer, solitary,
comes in the form of a lawnmower,
humming from outside,
teasing a lowly tune that sneaks in,
from which the walls dutifully vibrate to—
hugging the dirty, framed window
from which the living see
the living, before the cut of man
sinks in.
- The Room with the Big Windows
“How lovely!” she once said.
It had been raining,
leaving tear marks on
the window panes.
Though light still floods in,
washing the floor with
the shimmer of a placid lake,
I can’t help thinking
that all the gold makes the room
look oddly dull.
- The Room with the Broken Window
A feeling of vulnerability—
the angst of wind
sweeping up the stillness.
But you could see clearer now,
out to the street where laughter
and shrieks lingered.
Those sounds would wander in,
coming to rest in a bowl that sat
on a relic of a table,
collecting sorrows.
- The Room with the Curtains Down
Only the golden afterglow passes
through,
yellowing the carpet.
A woman sits close by,
reading quietly. The birds speak
without the image of the
object of speech.
It is in this way
that the world seeps through,
filtered and dampened.
Still the luminance
of something else
(something in the sky, perhaps)
makes it to the book,
possessing the paper
between
the ink.
- The Room with the Skylight
I hoped things would be ok.
Lying sleepless (as always)
listening to the stars die
insomuch that stars
were dreams
and dreams
were
life.
These people,
passing by;
drifting away and
away, up to the little
window of heaven.
I could see it so,
tasting the honey that
trickled down before dawn.
Was it inside, or out?
We gazed up—
dazzled,
in the soft edge
of the
surreal, awake,
awake
awake.
- The Room with the Barred Window
The sun goes down:
fleeting days,
fleeting years—
shadows here
stretch and grow,
shadows I eat
for supper.
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