Click, clack, the latch. Shuts. Plucks
Its own sound from the smack
Of metal on wood.

The whisper of hands slipping,
And the tap, tap of the nib as it nudges
The feint ruled page
Sends a tick, tick into the air,
And now I’m nearly there.

Shimmy across the floor
And softly open
The door that sticks,
Enter the room
We should have discovered
Where the rain dripped through.

Is it still there?
Is it in the blink of an eye,
The wink of your eye, to me,
Unguarded in a moment of truth,
Is it there?

The years circle,
Send slivers of hours
Into dusty corners
Where they shiver and settle, layer
Upon layer, gossamer threads,
Tiny moments that
Spark and glitter
Above the weight of dead time.

Cold. I’m cold.
A telephone rings —
A spiralling sound
That takes me down, and
The afterlife of its call
Will clutch my heart, squeeze
Until the tears flow, and freeze.