The Window
I hear the echoes of misguided footsteps,
things unkindly dropped, whispers;
the ripples of conversation
dappled through dust notes;
a geometry in sunlight.
The wood groans.
Twice I have had to move;
the heat through the windows
sodden in the pews;
hexagon boxes that outline the hall.
I have the dim light here;
the-other-side-of-the-light;
soft rubs of emerald upon my face;
a glass of sleep. In this place
where books devour your fingerprints,
a history of skin repeats.
The tiles fixed in iron grids -
some more than others dubbed
a green tint - they compete for my sense;
women using something elsewhere
to define their shape.
I see stars, triangles, letters, numbers
glazed over my temperament.
Some are like eyes watching me;
my neck craned in the hypnosis,
my mouth slack -
the sound of ice melting on my lips.
When I look to each tile of glass,
the nucleus spins;
the building outside -
a flesh coloured fish that gawps
in the tilt of my head.
Patterns neutralize,
individuals compose;
each goodbye lost in the orchestra -
these reverberations fall like water
down the glass;
my face with the heat
of time.
But then seconds pass, the sound of others assemble,
and the smell of varnish returns;
loose shifting breaths of the library
moving in,
moving out
and life goes on again;
switches of daylight along the way.
Ann Foxglove
Wed 31st Jul 2013 14:23
Beautiful poem.