by James Whyte
Your eye is still water, absorbing
the cloudy agitation of teenagers.
Your ear holds their voices, the clang
of metal lockers echoing
in the dim corridors of your dreams.
You know there is nothing emptier
than an empty school – a trickle
of water, a creak, the unexpected
whine of wind in forlorn corners.
Rooms full of absence. The deafening
tick of a clock measures the slow
hollowing of floorboards and bannisters,
slow growth and attrition
of vanished hands and feet.
Interminable childhood minutes
stretching to aeons. Your own
seasoned voice resounds, sanded,
polished and showing its grain.