Damned Spot

A year at least.
A splash on the threshold
in the shape of a star
if stars were ink
or soup. From the long slate
corridor into this rhomboid cocoon
breathing in the milk perfume
How can I help you?
step the fresh and the fretting
alike. They pass over
and over months, we tuck
paper into tray, stand up
the silver frame and spiral
notebook at right
angles to the phone,
slake the incessant thirst
of the philodendron and before emptying
the recycling bin, fan
pencils into bouquets of pink buds promising
industry
or at least
the pleasing semblance of it.

Every one of us looks
sideways at a reflection
buffed pure
in the door glass
it seems. I waited to see
if I would eventually fail
to recognize the stain
on the metal sill
separating our floating stage from the rest
of humankind
but no. As soon as you turn
your gaze to that of a spectator
witness to the rust and scuff of a derelict
set, you become a guest
and an unwelcome one at that.

To unsee
is a fantasy. Ignore
instead and cast
scraps at a waning appetite for clarity.

Or this:
Wet a cloth, pry
into crevices and flush
out forgotten shine
to warm where you are
now and will likely be for another
year at least. It is only a matter
of pausing
time
against its mighty will
and lifting your hands
to the place
your eyes
alight.
 

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