nothing left but the echoes (

you walk out a door)
but which side—

which side of the sun has burned
everything to simplicity (to
a glass

of wine) red bricks—
pale constructs and someone’s promise
to reconstruct each word
Hansel thought

was a bread crumb
(trailing) from one life
to the next

and another
like so many bottles
(emptied) into (the hours)—
promises—and arguments
that convolute then pass—

are blown away by the movement
of another door (and we
sigh as though) angels are in the rafters
of the air
this door disturbs