NewPoetry

Phoebe Wang

The evening, served on a blue-glazed platter.

The window admits as much of the slow parade

as it’s able: white moths folding like napkins,

soaking in the sun’s drops of oil.

Clouds open their gates. Crows clock

by thick as captions. It grows late.

I, too, want to be heading somewhere.

The hours roll off the table, my four-cornered life,

out of circulation. Out of the frame.

I have more than my share. Still I reach

for any excuse to leave the task at hand.

But what can other windows offer?

Boxed herbs in a flutter. Buttery light soaking

curtains as if they can’t contain that much richness.

Behind them, the shadow-play of husband and wife,

and love sits down for dinner.

My view is selective, allowing for the unseen.

In another room, I’ve made an incalculable vow.

Darkness drops down like a double-barred caesura,

between this day and all the others I’ll toss a coin for.