I saw another place through the half-open windows

while she talked and her words sounded off dully

through the windows that filled the wall like empty pupils

across from the bright yellow wall

which had grown out of place

since darkness had fallen

And shadows stretched out their arms

to smother us

There was another way too:

the door, the silent door,

a door that sneaks shut behind you

that also leads outside

to the halls of night

if you walk far enough

The brachiate halls of night

gloomy and long

that lead to the houses of rain

and there is no god to dispose of them

no Jehovah there in the whirlwinds

But there is the pittering of rain

small but cavernous, empty

like her words had been

There is me, maybe,

swallowed by these openings and closings

these branchings and joinings of ways,

though I cannot pick myself out among them

You might more easily find a speck of dirt in a desert

or a drop of water in the ocean


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