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.