The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Maryann Corbett

Spotter Observations

All morning the news
goes south,
geese mobilizing
abaft
a leader's bluster.
The sky
rumpled camouflage.

No clear
outlook for these days.

A Dream of Rooms

It goes like this. The house, he knows, is theirs.

Doors open into rooms he's never seen.

Light leans across the perfect hardwood floors.

Completely bare. Walls freshly painted, clean.

He enters. These are rooms he's never seen

or else their own rooms, stripped of pointless things.

The floors are bare. The walls are white now, clean.

Their early indiscretions in deep pinks

and greens have been absolved. The pointless things

that screwed themselves into his memory,

the pain of poor decisions, greens and pinks—

Gone. All has been somehow borne away.

The plastered-over holes of memory

don't show. The mice that chewed his mind are dead,

and the whole past is somehow borne away.

A space opens beside him. On the bed

something is not. And then his mind goes dead,

empty of everything but sun on floors.

A space shudders beside him on the bed.

He wakes then in the house he knows was theirs.