ISSUE: Spring 1977
Walks down the halls of a very old house
Fingering change into octaves of time,
Voices unlocking their names again
To open doors and run down steps,
Greeting the stranger who never returned;
Stands at a window watching his breath
Cloud the panes that separate
And fingers coins to jingle against themselves
The stamped-out revenue of years;
Stands at the door regarding the light
Stretching into twilight; sees his shadow
Cut in an angle over the jamb
And lengthen on the darkening steps.
