Through the blinds, it must have been the searchlight I saw
That silvered the woodwork. Step by step, its shadow was
Measuring out tonight. The climb itself has become a cloud
That thickens with the effort. I’d look up if I could.
Three lines erased in the address book. The thumbed pages
Of those last weeks through which the half lit end still gapes,
Unwritten. And what I miss goes without saying. Has
The explanation even there been brief as a flame and its ash?
I speak to the air that takes these things finally as its own.
Tell me who that is beyond the stairwell’s next turning now.
J. D. McClatchy, “The Landing” from The Rest of the Way. Copyright © 1990 by J. D. McClatchy. Reprinted with the permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.
Source: The Rest of the Way