One recalls the depths of shadow,
The uncertain elsewhere of each room,
Dust like stellar remnants drawn together.
As one crosses a threshold, the room
Departed vanishes as if a stage set
On which the lights have been cut.
One has no choice but to move ahead,
And cannot help but feel an interloper,
Guilty of some voyeuristic intrusion,
Although the rooms are empty, unoccupied.
Perhaps ahead a furnished room waits:
A thin veneer of moonlight on a quilt.
Black crepe draped over the mirror.
Eric Pankey is the author of many books. A new collection of poems, Not Yet Transfigured, is just out from Orison Books. He is the Heritage Chair in Writing at George Mason University.
