Being With

Each angle in the room is lost to the person
staring from a doorway or backed against a wall.

Boxes of black earth, coffins in reverse, are
stacked to the ceiling, stenciled with numbers.

You wouldn't want to live here or die here-
too much time lost in consciousness.

Underneath every table is a broken chair,
behind every picture a shuttered window.

The women do splits and the men, arms akimbo,
do all they can to prove they are what they are.

The efforts to impress, the shallow breathing,
the veins bulging at the temple, the black eyes

squinting with astonishment, all, individual to none,
freeze time into seeing, seeing nothing.

The red door opens a crack and a white spear
falls through, clattering like a wicked idea.