Again in the approaching evening,
I see a thousand women holding
clocks at bay to capture
a last instant of a past that slides away.
I see those women straining as if pushing
a river in reverse, obstinate
against the appointed course.
I too, labor to keep alive days gone
in pristine geometry, to hold
memories before they surrender
to calendars, before they reach
a bank of mere regrets.
Nothing particular in my loss
or in the myriad wounds across the world.
Hidden behind doors, is the commonplace
of daily rituals survival, denial,
at nothings, at tragedies, at life galvanized
in a gallery of images.
I rest my head on the table and see things
as in framed paintings,
the carafe of wine and the stain on the tablecloth,
the large bowl of oranges on a pedestal, vanishing
beneath the weight of my lids.
It is a moment of dream
where my ancestral place appears
in furrows of age familiar and unrecognizable
chairs with tall backs and intricate patterns,
the smoky chimney with bundles of green boughs.
It is a place where I return dribbling
cobalt blue from my fingers, held
in curds of time, fused
with moments I keep intact.