The House of Time

And fleetingly it seemed to him That in between one eye blink and the next Time paused, allowing time to be installed Within that countless interim, Coiled up, on hold, A memory predicted and recalled. Now, that weak muscle flexed, All that contained him started to unfold In front of him, a moving book In three dimensions he could wander through, At will, at any point, now, since, before, To feel, to listen and to look— A house, or suite Of rooms around a circling corridor, And waiting there, he knew, Were all the peopled days he’d not repeat. Slowly he stretched his hand to open The first door on his right. Why, this was easy: Christmas when he was seven, and his aunt Playing a polonaise by Chopin, Badly. “Lenore, We know you think you can, dear, but you can’t.” And he was resting, queasy From too much pudding. Now, another door: So far, so faint, not yet an I, A pulse of sense, he hung upon a web Of knitted blood. Above, the muffled heart Performed its mindless lullaby And in the womb He slept on half awake. That was his part Elsewhere, too, at the ebb Of his last consciousness. Another room: He recognized at once the face Of one who five years hence he would have bound As closely to him as a Siamese twin. How recklessly he would replace That loving care. Absorbed, now, in the dream of skin on skin, He whispered the profound And destined promises she’d never share. He shuddered, shut it, and proceeded. So room on room, all of his scenes, arranged In simultaneous succession, played Before him, unignored, unheeded, Each a tableau Vivant and drama, driven and yet stayed, Developing, unchanged. At last the time that paused for time to flow He saw was coming to an end. He saw himself before himself, distinct As when—a life ago—it came to him A single blink could comprehend, And then unfold, All time within that countless interim. He blinked. And then he blinked. And time continued as it coiled, on hold.