Book of Hours

It’s a long shadow a human casts 
whose eyes bend toward
shaky rooms where decisions 
happen by the hour.

Iron filings line up, the vectors 
holding together.

Where is the weather going?

Next day everything’s unmade, 
buildings exerting
last year’s entitlements. I knew a guy

said we should close down
a month, get our script in order. 
The writers’ room is closed.

I was visible a second there.

I walk the monastery yard
where nothing happens among stone crosses:

retreats, Psalms, long shadows of the dead. 
All the things.

When the lights gave out, it was more 
than shifting scenery, it was
the closing of the theaters all over town. 

What comes next, well.

Read more from Issue 18.1.