Piece for Interiors 

As in a room with the barest qualities

of room (bed, lamp, door), a lime-plastered wall 

without windows interposed the almost

cubic space, concealing what may have been 

a far corner, a narrow corridor. I heard 

two voices in conversation—something

created between them, something about 

mind as passion, passion as essential,

terrifying, a self education. I wrote

what they believed. They were beliefs I held,

understood, if not, atmospherically,

as true, but thought that in recording them 

they would become physical. The two spoke

with great urgency, in the manner 

of revelation until the moment 

the lights cut out—wall disappeared. I kept on 

with the recording despite not seeing 

the page. I grew frightened of what waited

beyond the dividing wall, as cautioned 

by the speaking pair—remembrance of them 

slipping from me. I feared the maybe- 

corridor. But no beast or object 

announced itself or emerged. Perhaps 

it was the word “corridor” itself—its vast gray

light—under which I was so paralyzed. 

“Parlysis.” “Terror.” Such are effects 

of believing. In darkness I scanned 

the fixture, twisted the turn switch,

followed the cord with my fingers 

to the outlet in the lime-plastered wall,

but I couldn’t get back to them. 

Even when the lights came on. I couldn’t

get back to them. Not even in my notes, 

which recorded nothing, described instead 

a grid of gray parallel lines 

intersecting at clear, defined points.

Some assumed the qualities of figures. Others

receded into space, illegible, fruitless.