By | 1 May 2017

Sleeping in its brick tabernacle
the still water is like an ear or radar dish
attuned to distant pulse. Incurious,
we’ve walked forever to school and work
past locked gates. The saw tooth roof
gives nothing away but scission with sky
and though the key-hole draws the eye, the pupil
contracts. Inside, a herringbone of oak beams
and rafters hovers over the water’s weight
and repose. Beyond the inscrutable iron fence
the street’s steep uphill/ downhill zeal;
urban windows; the domestic race
of breakfast, phones and life and birth and death.
Inside this null and void this leave no trace
the morning sun has picked the lock,
entering through a gable’s little porthole,
bending light with its oblique know-how.

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