Walking through, you too are on display.
All of us, visitors, observing, studying, interpreting
what we see, trying to find meaning
and connection. I quietly study you studying.
And I pencil sketch our life together.
Waking in a feverish afternoon and thinking,
“It’s much too early to get up.”
Realizing the sun is somehow now misplaced,
rising in the west, I weakly stand.
I’m a sundial gnomon. My shadow warped.
Heavy the oar to him who’s tired,
lightened by the sunset over the harbor.
Heavy is the saltwatered, rain-watered oilcloth coat,
drying beside the sleeping sailor and fireplace.
Morning’s red sky and heavy the sea.
Just enough snow to make us believe
the day is a blank page and
on these faint lines we can write
a short story with a happy ending.
The window screen divides the scene
into thousands of pixels, and each one
will need to be filled, black or white,
on or off, here or not here.
A crossword puzzle we can never complete.