Outside my window
a blade-fronded palm tree
feels its branches tremble

some disturbance here
from trespassing breeze

I make a mental note:
this is a picture
that I can work
with reader
as you
follow me into my dark room
and then into
the darkest of dark rooms
where even I have
never ventured before.

Here we shall wait.
Bide our time when things
develop. Are allowed to develop.
Something is
sure to emerge, something
that has the power to
transport,
without a doubt.

And here is the
rogues’ gallery of those
family and mentors who
swore I would not
amount to anything

much beyond the childhood struggles, errors,
you see
back-projected. See how
muted they are, framed in
the green-gray tones of
shapeless regret.

And yet
this is all recoverable — there
is alchemy in it
those leaden eyes so
convinced they saw
nothing as
there was nothing to see
shocked to
hear that very window opening
the room suffused if
not flooded with
so golden a light.

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