If There Was a Book About This Hallway
some pine slats in the corner
and lamps along the walls that give the path an endlessness
I remember the day I left the meterman standing in the hall.
In my room I drew his hard apple face as he waited
in the cold shade.
No matter how slight, it is a scene from history.
A scene from the book.
Are dreams set in hallways because the perspective is screwed?
Or because they are the long, open, unused stages in our homes?
The hallway was a dry riverbed I dreamed one night,
an Indian turnpike on another.
(And it may have been those things before the house was here.)
I never heard the meterman leave but saw he was gone
when I went out to hang his sketch on the wall.
Sour furniture-polish winds rolled down the dark corridor.
Once a fir where each door now stands.
If Christ had died in a hallway we might pray in hallways
or wear little golden hallways around our necks.
How can it still be unwarmed after so many passings?
An outdoors that is somehow indoors.