We’ve been filming underground
for weeks. Like God, I’ve gone south.
Down here in these tunnels & walls
there is seldom any wind,
but it is down here, when I feel
a breeze brush across me,
inside the whole sound of the wind,
I hear people screaming.
Today, by accident, we interrupted
another movie being made.
I opened the door to a stone room
& two women in clear shower caps
were bathing in a porcelain tub, &
by candlelight, filmed one another.
I closed the door, & backed
away out into the echoing hall
having wished them luck with
their film. A breeze touched my face
at the closing of the door. Color
underground is not redolent,
but fragrant. I’m rarely in a grove.
Days ago we filmed a frantic painter
devising a mural with burnt cork
on a wide stone wall in a large chamber.
The chamber smelled of coffee,
though we could locate none.
Leaving the chamber, I pushed against
the door. There was something on
the other side, pushing back.
This is why, before we began filming, I set
a chair in my yard beneath the magnolia tree
to wait for whatever it is on the other side.
The chair is red & made of wood.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.
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