pulls a groundhog from a hat.
His name tag reads Dr. Gillespie,
the same as the man who delivered you.
He holds it over his head, examines it
like a glass slide. Calls it by a name
which you try to catch, a name
which slips like a dream
through your reaching fingers.
& the groundhog
catches the light of the dusty chandelier
in the gloss of its eye
& sneezes. & the sneeze
shakes the warm red woolen drapes
& you catch a glimpse of the wall
& imagine a crucifix hanging
& you remember that this happened yesterday
& will happen
long after you leave the room
& forget the hymnody of its walls.
Oh! To be once again suspended
in that eternal womb of time
where everything was uncertain
& holy
& breathed.
--Matt W., Adult, Guest