When I glanced at a window, a face
behind mine suddenly surfaced,
like memory or the soul
or the person you are becoming.
I write now in order to find you--
some fragment of you
that wishes me well. Some kind of time,
a child, like wind, opening a door.
Porchlight edges through the curtains.
The melanges of the year mingle,
and the menages of memory mingle.
One note of your voice overlaps
silence or speech when I least expect it.
Your voice must change as you move
from one time to another,
or perhaps its range
ends here, in the certain
path that shines across this table.
Take a trail into the past.
Open a punished door.
Rediscover the foundation.