A Shape for it | Michael Ryan

Sometimes when time goes by
I feel it bend.
The day becomes the same white room,
and the day won’t end.
It’s walls show no human scratch,
no useless wild attempt,
and echo no curse or cry,
but do not relent.
I awake amazed to be inside,
like an inmate slapped awake
while dreaming of an endless field
where the sun makes
festival of a girl’s long yellow hair,
and she sways to gather
her dress as she waits,
and time seems clear as air.