Four Poems

In the Corridor

There is no one there
in the corridor and yet
whenever I pass through I can hear
a distinct exchange of voices
overhead as I pause and then
pass on followed by that
susurrus from another sphere:
our own clattering below
matters little to those who
refuse to show themselves, preparing
to renew their crepitations, their
airy conversations with themselves
as we pass ignored
through the corridor below.


On August Evenings
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