In the sudden limbo that follows
a pause of the moon, ivy is the first
to sleep. No. That is not right.
The house wanders; stone, straw,
wind stagger through leaves.
What we owe teaches everything:
the moment to fly in ragged circles, clockwise.
In us, in the bats, there is a kind of weather
painting our stories. I have become
a student of the space inside bone
where song or storm tears a window.
A bell floats there. It is no illusion.
What I mean is, the echoes
are dazzling, and they never stop.

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Marion Boyer is an emeritus professor for Kalamazoo Valley Community College. Her chapbook, Green, was published by Finishing Line Press and this year her poetry appears in The Atlanta Review’s 10th anniversary anthology, as well as an anthology from Outrider Press of Chicago. Rhino recognized her as the 2006 winner of their Readers/writers contest. Permafrost, Midwest Poetry Review, Crab Creek Press, The Spoon River Poetry Review, The MacGuffin, and Heliotrope have also published Boyer’s poems recently.  

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"The Window" was previously published in The Midwest Quarterly, Autumn 2003.  

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kaleidowhirl  |  spring 2007