“A 16 line free-verse poem with four 4-line stanzas, unrhymed, in the style of John Ashbury's early poems in "Self-portrait In A Convex Mirror"”

Stillness layers the late afternoon,  
cicadas pulse beneath ripening heat.  
A table, cluttered with the weight of idle hands—  
keys, a tea cup, a glint of faded mail.  

Between glass and shadow, the room wavers,  
angles collapsing into softened edges,  
as if memory pauses mid-breath,  
imprinted on the cooling sill, familiar and unsure.  

Insistently, voices from another room comb the air,  
unfinished questions buckle, then drift,  
a half presence like a coat abandoned  
on the back of a pale kitchen chair.  

The world tilts, ever so gently,  
inward toward a convex center,  
where both reflection and haze  
converge on the surface of this ordinary hour.

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