All that matters
when they walk out the doorway
seems to leave with them,
tight, and in an impossible escutcheoned void.

 

Much can go on
in the reflection that punctures
when we look in the mirror,
to watch in exception,
the matter of leaving
left.

 

And as we retract
in the search through what mattered,
and lights come on in syncopation,
our stance is bent and eloquently awkward,
lost in the life anachronic.

 

So that all that matters
stands before us
begging in an uncautioning glance:
collect me,
draw me,
keep me sacred--
I'm the pool of all that matters,
left as if it doesn't.

 

The time, money and burnished extraction,
the collected protraction, protected abstraction
selected reflection and redemption depicted
that was summoned by the security tempted
of all that exists in matter
smiles as we
as reflections in a Corot

 

when the doorway fills--
no matter.