BETA

Rooms with windows

I. 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.

 

 

II. 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.

 

 

III. 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.

 

 

IV. 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.

V. 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.

 

 

VI. 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.

 

 

VII. 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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