Time Plane

Today the moon is silver grey
brighter than the vermillion box
in the closet
and your dwindling memory
basks in the moonlight
sieving through the corner window.

It fades in the eyes, the retina detaches
itself on a sharp knife
and a door opens
where chalk lines are not ready
to type your mother’s name,
and release the whiteness of the floor marble.

The wind peels its skin away like
a curling snake and a night
that burns itself down to cinder.
You write poems of a lonely raindrop
on the glass window, then erase
and begin writing again.

Time goes around the house, the
African lily dries on your
writing table, taking the smell with it.