Delilah Silberman

THE WAITING

To follow a thought,
think in its way
and think at its end

I did. I did it
well, maybe not at all.

Attached, to each other.
What is attached?
What is to each other?

Almost all of the tulips
startling today. All heads
startle. A slight tension

in your shoulders,
raising them
when I notice.

In the construction—
a frame for the man
sitting in the diner,

unaware of the frame
the paper taped around the glass
makes around him.

This is a photograph I saw
and think about sometimes.

Sometimes for me
you watch out,
your head slanting.

Early, the window
makes a shadow of itself
on the wall with all its lines
and not at an angle, just exact.

Then I looked. I’m looking
toward the glass door
outside the wood
one, the glass frame.

You can tell
the difference between outside
and air by the smudge.

I’m looking at
the one that opens even
when the other is shut.

Is it you that’s coming
in when I hear
the door lifting?
If it is and if it’s not?

 
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
 

POOL

Meant to cover
The roof, water

It sifts through
Hits the furniture

In droves
Rinsed out

Revealing thoroughly
There I am seeing

The ceiling
As if it were floor

My feet pointed up
It was a grey house

Or what is behind
Is grey

In place of a living room
A pool

A house once
Unbent though

If you looked at it
Like a child held

By her ankles,
It looks bent.
It looked.

 
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
 

A MEASURE

A part unlike the rest and coiling,
my arm, now, once
around someone
for a length until it wasn’t.

The regular motions
of arm, leg,
other things,
felt fine. Only one tug,
uninterrupted for a minute.

Falling asleep
I slacken
between and under sheets
with no parents
standing by.

They’re lying down.
Their bed is near
and made. I wait
for them to wake.

Stand by, reclusive,
thinking only
of a thing I did
and was restrained for.

What was the noise?
Parts without
distance I reach
around myself, my arms,
small enough
the way around.