John Yau

  Stuffing yourself into a blizzard.
  The heavy brass knocker in the form
  of a laugh. The passageway leading
  from the living room to the study
  became a memory of other possibilities.
  Red piano keys of sunset.
  On a motorcycle beside a wheel
  larger than you. On one
  corner of a porch were two
  coffee cups full of rainwater
  and dust. The rope that might
  have once restrained a dog.
  Counting her gray hairs in the
  blue mirror of the polished linoleum.
  A barbarian surprise reached the gates
  of the kingdom. The light shifted among
  the leaves, like a rat. Skirted the edge
  of her smile. Another autobiography
  sinking beneath its glittering reflections.
  The sky hopes to find a new purpose, while
  hints of snow left a stain on every collar.

  #14 fr. "Scenes from the Life of Boullée"


  in Corpse and Mirror
  [New York: Holt, Rinehart, Winston, 1982]