Geometric City

There is a room without windows
a man cracks the glass doors
a woman drops a pearl earring.

My father’s face rises from my sleep.
He tries to say something but his silent
words turn into paper lanterns.

In the portico, autumn sunlight pools turn
into squares, a crimson splash, a riot
of colour in the trees.

The chaos and noise make a kind of sense,
a few streetlamps cut the twilight,
the city outside is geometric and bare.

Inside the shadows spilling into a rectangle
are we wormholes to the other planets?
No one speaks above whisper.

There is no clear path, no clear surface,
not all footprints echo, nor shout.
I stand before myself, facing a broken mirror.