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Poem

Closer

       the clock tics tuesday
       down the metal corridors
       smooth wind and calling voices
       rush wet and dark beside me
       an open door
       has the last eager breath of daylight
       tightly held
       a hand touches mine
       asking where I am

       in the story distance
       lasts forever but here
       the forgotten hours ring like little bells
       the play begins and stops
       I cannot tell
       which edge I've fallen from
       only that the down reveals the up I've given

       always ending always so much
       like the child lost
       face down in the image drawer
       waiting trusting that the arrow
       so many years in flight
       may hit some target some where
       a name finally given
       to this tiny spinning dot

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