all the world
is a story
loosely fit
into a house.
its interpretations
gather like
a clowder of cats
in the wilds of
a living room
fill-
ed
with
hidden
m.e.a.n.i.n.g.s.
how delicious for the
reader to hide in the
shadows and claw
at the freshly laid
surfaces.
— —
i can take you
into a back room
where we both can
still ourselves like
the alto of the moon,
viewed through colored
lens of a skylight.
if we look closely
with our quiet eyes
we will notice the room
unfold into a space of
grand proportions; the
middle of the dome
forming an inner
chamber.
ah, to be
a word within
a word, a phrase
within a phrase;
the beginning
of an ending
which itself
has an inside
with both
beginning
and end.
but how does one
travel through a house
that holds the infinite
in every corridor.
you can latch onto
the finite hand of bubby
hall who is our narrator
for today.
he is a story in and of himself,
a skylight dome.
in a different world i might
know the full dimensions of boo hall,
in all their vastness and complexity.
so could the wide-eyed artist,
kathy rhodes, who could paint
him beautifully.
but for now this story will end
in the emerald room,
which is itself a vast
and storied world.
it shimmers like
a poem soon
opening its doors,
voicing no inauthentic
need for sudden closure.