The faces across from me grow into themselves
In the room the windows are fringed with stained glass
so when the sun pushes its arms through
it translates into splashes of rainbow on the wall,
on the stained, carpeted floor.
I sit on one chair, someone sits on the other.
The space between us watched by the ticking of a clock
echoing the click beetle pulse in our wrists.
My red coat hangs in the corner like an observer
or a different part of myself.
In the room, I sit, back to the window. Sometimes
I see the Sash of a rainbow on the faces in front of me.
The room is an elevator, we move together
travelling up and down the hallways of the mind.
Sometimes the rainbow grows arms and legs,
scrambles across the wall then disappears.
The faces across from me grow into themselves
the way a sleeper, drowsy on waking, reflects
the unmuddied beauty of morning
before the day prints its news on her.