it's like the sun of her, aglow in golden arras, i slowly pace a room with open windows, the curtains share their shadow like a memory and dust mingles the slow light with chalk white ephemerality, my pockets hold not but lint, my shirt torn where the cold may ice my shoulder, in these walls lies the life of things, and with a flick of a match the moths rid the night, they cast a muted spiral of grey and flower before my eyes as a teacher. that all who walk away are coming home, that all who arrive must set out again, this life is a Sisyphean hill until you look up from the rock and see that all is horizon.