Each poem, a candlelit room to linger in.
In the midnight chamber the ink dries slowly, not because the air is still but because the words resist their own becoming.
Every door I have ever closed still presses against my palms at night.
The candle knows what the room will not say.
I found it between pages 114 and 115 of a book I do not remember reading.
There is an hour before the dawn when the house remembers everyone who ever slept here.
