Box Three, Spool Five

rob mclennan

The illusion of physical space. No square, and no twilight. I dismantle my office. The closeness of dusk, of feathers. Cold, oh the cold. The green plain. A stitch of homeland, confined in such corners. Memory, an obsolete mantra. Little book, little book. Little capsule. This closet, intemperate. These ancient cassette tapes, flame the layers of dust. The wave of a sword. Images, flicker. And I in my work-shirt, my standard black t. A light glows beneath cloud. Such thoughts might not finish. Marvel. To pull at that thread. Gods, and animals. Rose’s bookshelves, where her bed will soon be. Salt on my fingertips. The allusion, of space. Can the world be this quiet. A snowstorm, repeats. What solitude, narrows.