The concepts of an eating station
were emerging
Two-tone vile segment
inching along the alabaster
weekends, merged with birds to men.

The chair leaks out of my hand
I am an orphan sail in this cathedral
of lights –
whispers are the language of these
rooms.

A girl once watched me enter
from shadows.
Her pastel Rosemary, her scrutiny,
stuck into the wood of the table

her aluminum body, razor sharp
against the clocks that I had
brought with me

Paper confetti birds lighting
the room.