Like Crossing a Room in the Dark

Something enjoys the thought of a minor challenge
and wants to swim in the dark, among the objects
that live there. It becomes a burglar's game
with rules you make yourself: not to stub
your toe, knock into chairs or tables, or
make a noise. You push off from the door,
stop to guess at shapes — your eyes can do
no better than dark purple. And to listen.
Somewhere a slow clock is lying in wait.

What is it that the room seems to expect?
Why should you think the furniture is swelling
to half its size again? You drift your arms
to feel the air ahead. You say to yourself,
I have a purpose, my own expectations.
I am crossing a room in the dark: foolish enough,
but harmless. On the far side there must be a door.
You breast the night like a dreamer, waiting to strike
the first giant chair, the first boulder of dust.

Copyright © 2003 Lawrence Sail All rights reserved
from The World Returning
Bloodaxe Books Ltd. / Dufour Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission