Closing Hours

by Ann Lauterbach

This trace, if it exists, is alms for delusion.

An arch uncurls from the floor

scented with the scent of a tapestry, housed here.

I recall the hour but not its passage

unless dream captures and ties it to sleep:

a fat bellhop smiles, shows me to the tower

where I can watch the departure.

But some days settle so that nothing

crosses the horizon; stare as I will, no star

needles the air. Now I am left

on the outskirts of a forest hemmed in by wheat

where plump trees hide the image, its symmetry

shot up and blown across the ground like feathers.

The unicorn, the grail, blue and red wings

of kneeling musicians, these are embroidered

elsewhere. Perseverance was crowned.

Hope and Pity prayed for success.

How fast is this camera? Can it record a trace?

There was a voyage. Four mounted horses

strain against centuries.

To each is allotted: dust kicked up, smoke, plumage.

Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.