The door opens
and falls from its hinges:
A small branch rubs
against the window’s skin, howls break
from the storm’s throat—
a woman was here. Air twisted around her
face. She touched the walls.
Light swells from the hole
in the ceiling. A face forms
underneath its moon, speeds from vision.
Turning, the hallway moves
without you, pins you to its own
path. As you float, the yellow air clouds
into being. Its hand slides below
the eyes, shuttles below skin,
gas thickens upon the crest
of the tongue. Something resists
resistance, washing you
out from your bones,
making its plow into living.
Windows lifted,
curtains shape and fill
with a yellowed glow.
Your family is here, TV on.
A laughter is played,
and as you finally seek your chair,
the door is heard.
Andrew Geary 