Smaller than the Sky

The sky made me feel small
that day we walked through history
and I felt disconnected from myself.

The trees were shedding bark
because all the wind had gone
and the leaves tumbled away
yet they still needed to pay homage
to loss, and so they dropped it sheet by sheet
misshapen gray, crunching underfoot.

And we were staring up under their
skeletal arms bisecting the universe
cutting through time and tension
and the cold.

We toured the kind of house
none of us would own
with servant bell pulls elaborate
separating doors and walls thick enough
to choke heartbeats.

Everything was roped into
careful sections of look and
don't look and always don't touch.

The guide had a suffering savant face
like emo jesus with glasses
a good ring on his hand and
a jacket hanging on the antique
coatrack - guess he could touch.

Every now and then
he'd hesitate drifting between
prepared speech and speculation
and it was in those moments of prophecy
I glimpsed the smoky gentleman's parlor
the ink stained hands of library parchment
writers, heard the bustle of crinoline skirts
upon the three-toned suspended stairs.

We thanked him
for the lovely tour
and returning outside
the sky contracted
or I expanded.