Clearing

64 THE MINNESOTA REVIEW CAROL HANSEN CLEARING The sun hits the rug like truth or a slap I respect but can't love. Its edges come into focus. Their knives could melt ice. Dust hangs in the beam arid the beam hits the bookcase, all without sound. I could have been dead for years and the windows boarded but one. Those books would look the same, if light could see—read or unread, now or ever, if light could tell time. Is the calendar true or false? How long since the phone's been used? Is the baby asleep or grown and gone? Only the time of day is clear. Whether we love and whether it hurts, the sun will rise on our daily trespass turning us out of our lives. ...