The window was now open: a waiting.
Yestertimes, beyond, it had been closed.
Closed and close. Unseasonably close.
Now, winter chills brought extra coating,
as street figures below shuffled home
through wind’s sighing, nocturnal moans.
Inside, a waiting orange-faced sentinel
held the twilight in thrall. The same
anniversary scene re-enacted a more.
An old waltz of flickering, frozen tricks
cranked into life. Beaming headlights lit up
sepia-tinged walls, their brownish tones muted.
The sentinel spied, flickered. A glimpse had slipped in.
Imposing, the arched window stared down,
shadowed in gradations of soft light.
A black-witched appearance had drifted in,
as lights flashed past, roving for lost prayers.
A filmy silhouette lingered, then emerged
from the window’s casement recess.
No reply. Her back was turned to him:
a disposition framed in aspect.
Talkies had killed communication.
The sentinel watched with cool insistence:
his blank eyes and sliced smile deep-cut black holes.
The coming remained starched and rigid.
The wind cried outside for comfort. He felt
a lone in the bare room, unknown, untreated.
The simple wooden table and chair
propped against each other for company.
They had been too close. Unreasonably close.
All was now hollow. All hollow.
They shared a trance at one remove.
He looked out and past. She looked out and past.
A figure flew inverted a cross the moon
casting cursed fortune. They shared the view.