Walking through the House with a Candle
I'm deep-wading in the pupil of my life.
The rooms slide around compass-like,
shadows magnetically repelled
from my lit hand. Each blank wall
reveals the candle's lip-a dark
ledge on which the room rests.
Outside, the flash-veins of lightning
like sudden facts have all but passed.
What's left is a steady black rain
of sound- malleable: hollowed
against the deck, fingertipped on brick,
indiscernible in the mowed grass.
My anticipation of life resuming-
the snap-to of the radio, the lights
sterilizing the room of all inversions -
stashes time on the blacked-out shelves.
In the lull, the house has changed:
the nail-holes in the living room
have deepened like beer-belly navels,
the table holds its balance
on the thin legs of its Siamese twin,
and the floor's scattered papers
have swallowed their ordered print.
The bay window reflects my light
back into this shifting space,
of which I am for the moment 195
Structure
26 lines · 14 stanzas