The Blueprint

Amy Woolard | Poetry

If it isn’t one room, it will be another,

When you find your way back, chalking
The walls, the better to lose yourself again

My dear, there will always be something
That cannot be described exactly

As a room: a stairwell, a closet, a porch
With the one light left lit for you, &

If it isn’t in one room, it will be in another,
Curled up as a lost sonata, or a blueprint

For an entire town, its traffic bottlenecking
At the sight of you, how everything will seem the opposite

Of a hallway, it’s all coming back to me now,
Like too many parentheses, tulips will crowd each other

& me, as if in mute love with you, the wind
Will end up narrowing where I can walk,

All over town, girls will fall in love
With starvation, the skythe sky

Get it through that thick heart of yours,
It will all dead end at my door:

Player pianos will rewind themselves without hesitation
Or remorse, secret passageways will reveal themselves

As simple bookshelves after all, I will see you
In no one’s eyes, no one’s architecture.