Architecture of a Cold August
by Judith Root
They played out their lives
against mahogany as if dark
wood led only to tragedy.
Dated and filed, her faults
were stairs to a wall, second
floor doors to nowhere.
Her hair arcing away from him
spiraled into thoughts as
sheer as light, as blowsy
as the present. She dreamed
vertical blinds and quarry tile,
lofts where ceilings of sweet
jazz or rock opened to blue
grass vistas instead of chants,
Gregorian square notes counter-
pointing wavy windowpanes,
their lead frames straining
to surround her with graphs
and grids, hissing flow
charts that followed them
from room to spare room.
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