SUNDAY/ The Door-less Room
he sits in a room
where the walls tilt away in ratios
that he doesn't have ways to understand.
there is a window at the end of the room.
the window is half opened, half closed.
the room is white
with the warmth of a dwindling summer.
autumn's mercy is at the window.
a season of leaves.
brown small birds skid on air.
air ploughs, almost brown,
spirals into white warm song.
she is in the yard.
he senses the sound of her skirt
in the fading breeze.
among the leaves.
beyond the yard are ten thousand yards
beyond his thoughts
there are ten or twenty years
leading to the sea.
there are twenty seas ending on shores.
on the twentieth shore
there is a yard
in that autumn yard there is a window
behind that window
he sits in a room that seems to glow
the window is open now
and so he climbs out.
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