“A 12 line poem with four three line stanzas, unrhymed, in the style of John Ashbury's works in The Double Dream of Spring”

Impossible birds cross the evening lawn,  
shadows cast by the hush of televisions,  
faint scent of lilac—unsure if it is real.  

A glass left sweating on the porch step,  
last summer’s sun still stored in the warped planks,  
a conversation drifts, half-remembered, like old smoke.  

Every clock in the house disagrees—  
time collapses gently against the windowpane,  
where someone’s blurred reflection waits its turn.  

Pages of an unread book catch in the draft,  
chapters folding into themselves quietly,  
even language, tonight, seems to be looking away.

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