The form stands in the corner of the room
like a man made of glass. All he can be
is how the light bends through him; he's the way
reflections and refractions play, the zero sum
of its deflections and distractions. "Come
on in", I say, as if there was a he
to speak to, or an I to speak, or words to say
or any other place to come in from

except time. How many rooms have held, might hold
him, he them - had their décor rearranged
in his impartial gaze? He makes me feel old
and young (not in a good way) and yet..."Chance
it", he says, silently, and everything is changed.
He never moves, and yet we start to dance.

by Philip GROSS, in "The POETRY REVIEW", Volume 104:2, Summer 2014