Life at the top of the stairs
Having to be somewhere—
I found myself living on the landing
at the top of the stairs.
A thousand times a thousand times
I finished in my mind the unfinished
painting leaning against the wall.
The eight-legged one,
tiny Protectorate of the Shadows
guarding her eggs,
she alone knows the rest of the story—
the comatose trees
the fog drenched night
and all the sad creatures and
voices caught in the scaffolding there.