Exchange

O p  e    n

ing the entry,

 I pass over its margin.

The door leans close to observe its wooden frame.

The flat, stained tree swells beyond its binding root;

it barely fits. The lock

sets in its tarnished hinge,

closing me in with my own. Art-

ful hands glance the doorknob,

Brassy and Loud. My paintings glower

down with hot resentment formed like a string of volcanic islands or

children of neglect. Full mother

To each I lay        dormant        in my

fresh

crumpled sheets. Loose paper

winks at me with the wrinkled face of the old man

who orders a large coffee with extra coffee

and tells me my dimples make me look

like Shirley. My temple dances

with the soft

beating

      dying,

old

rhythm

of my youthful offer-

rings. Around the roses,

dried and tied with a worn shoelace, gather

dusty memories of their bloom and the young, painted hands

who tied them to their beds. Of wilted petals

my room is shaped. Like the forgotten

sculpture set to dry atop my lonely

piano, quiet

and cracking, my fingers

arekissed

with ink. Bleeding colored phrases

to this fresher canvas,

my pen draws

C   l  o se.