Stone Walls

“Sometimes we seek that which we are not yet ready to find.” 
― Libba Bray, Rebel Angels

Your secret corridor,

Your foggy fiction,

Could only live

In suspense.

Your grey-faced

Fiddling

With

Maybe,

Degraded walls

Of stone

And bone.

Softness on either side

Was lost

As you

Measured

The width

Of meaning

And miscalculated

The price of

Closing your

Eyes.

Your story

Had no clear exits

And entrances,

Just the way you liked--

Hanging in mid-air,

Unfettered by

Gravity,

And speculation,

Your mind aptly directed

Each twist and turn.

Bricks of

Red clay and

Robin’s Eggs,

Were sound

Here, yet

Unsecured boards

And expanding cracks

Still found you.

You scoured
The perimeter

Wondering  what

Got loose?

You sent up flares

To spot your

Uncooperative

Creation.

You found a way

To contain

The animal.

You hid it inside

Thick folded notes

Turned over and over,

Dusted

With grains

Of hourglass

Sand.

Diane Keys 11/2016