and if the corners of the room
stay dark, the lines of sunshine never
quite penetrating past the curtain,
past the bookcased pages of advice
where bent fingers followed lines
with a slow drag, an inhale, turning
each page with a white callous,
closing covers, then pushing spines
back into place—
and if the corners of the room
hide the dusty strands of hanging silk
at odd angles, the work
of the curling legs of a long-dead spider,
hardened in its arching against the white wall
now grey with shadow—
and if the corners of the room
catch your brief glance,
a sudden understanding of the wall's
change in direction,
a sharp turn to close you in a cage,
to amplify your echo,
the banking of a broken sound wave
off the dust of muffled walls—
and if the corners of the room
pull you toward muted shadows,
press your hot cheek against
the evening window pane,
instead
