Closing Hours

This trace, if it exists, is alms for delusion. An arch uncurls from the floor scented with the scent of a tapestry, housed here. I recall the hour but not its passage unless dream captures and ties it to sleep: a fat bellhop smiles, shows me to the tower where I can watch the departure. But some days settle so that nothing crosses the horizon; stare as I will, no star needles the air. Now I am left on the outskirts of a forest hemmed in by wheat where plump trees hide the image, its symmetry shot up and blown across the ground like feathers. The unicorn, the grail, blue and red wings of kneeling musicians, these are embroidered elsewhere. Perseverance was crowned. Hope and Pity prayed for success. How fast is this camera? Can it record a trace? There was a voyage. Four mounted horses strain against centuries. To each is allotted: dust kicked up, smoke, plumage.