I have to talk about
whatever tells.
I knock on your door,
three thuds like a Freemason
and you reveal.

The open door says come in,
I enter the mystery,
the uncanny darkness of
the next words to be said.

Speak, I whisper,
and the hallway mirror
shivers with a little light
as if it could see the sound—

who really knows all
the human senses know,
it’s all whistling in the dark.
Or not so dark now, I see
a light upstairs, dim steps,
shadows I could climb.
What language am I in,
what word is this house?

I rub my palms together
and remember sunshine.
Houses don’t just happen,
somebody must have planned all this,
could it be me?
                                    Be
careful what you say
when you’re alone in the dark.
Anything happens. Walls
windows doors terraces
flowering borders deep wells
stone fences. Distant vista.

Where am I now?
Foot of the stairs I will not climb,
feel the carpet underfoot,
lush, from northern Persia,
I can feel the ochre and the madder,
the curved colors writhing
towards a sudden incalculable peace.
I feel sleepy in this word.
Isn’t anybody here?
Bring me coffee, bright
kitchen somewhere not too far?
Fluorescent sandwiches,
microwave mazurkas, life?

Where is life?
Some words have pets
but no cat here. No children,
that’s stranger. No one but me.
If I could find a bedroom
I would sleep, but most
houses keep that sort of thing
up the very stairs I will not climb.

No, no, no. I’m down here
for a reason. From carpet
to bare wood my feet
find the way, polished floor,
hallway, and it too seems
to have a little light at the end.

But I have traveled long enough this night,
here I am and here must linger,
like music on some radio
you can’t find to turn off.

6 March 2021