“A free-verse 30 line poem, unrhymed, in the style of John Ashbury's early poems in "The Double Dream Of Spring”
In a glass hallway somewhere between morning
And the half-remembered nap of four o’clock,
The chairs line themselves in conspiracy—
Bent legs, sometimes bracing, sometimes conceding
The weight of those who do not pause to sit.
Light, particulate and insistent, enters
From all sides, scattering motives on the floor—
Mosaic of moments, a tilt in one direction
No larger than the bias of a leaf descending
Natural, yet absolute, as a dropped card.
Someone’s laughter from another wing, muffled,
A part of the story already diffused
By the passivity of walls and the corridor’s curve,
Arranges itself between the ceiling tiles
Like dust collecting mapless histories of movement—
Shoes, echoes, the click and answer of passing.
Here, time composes errands inside the margins
And erases them, even as they are found.
A memory waits at every intersection,
Pausing to wonder why it has surfaced now—
A key left on a desk, a fragment of music
Unsure to whom it belongs.
It is possible to become absorbed
By the minor gestures: A shadow glancing the wainscot,
The softened abrasion of a newspaper folded
Again and again until it yields, almost willingly,
To the logic of hands with nowhere to go.
Outside, a tree is learning the language
Of wind, discovers itself in reflection
Stretched over the glass—wavering, then deciding.
The day follows its private conversations,
Each syllable closing a door, or opening
A corridor with more windows than you remember.
And here, ultimately, is the room refusing conclusion—
A vase perched where someone left it this morning,
Bright, but not insistent, so at ease with its ask.
No arrangement of flowers, just the possibility
Of water, absorbing light as a private act.
We are left with the hum
Of air conditioning, and the knowledge
That somewhere else the story continues,
Uncaptioned, graceful, assembling its meaning
From the shifting grammar of passage.
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