What a strange phrase it is: As if
in the middle of the night, the steps stir,
shaking off the feeling of being walked up,
walked down all day.
They creep down
themselves and slip out the front door,
leaving a gap between the first and
second floors, and begin to flap their
carpeted wings. It is a flight of stairs,
silhouetted against the moon,
like in the movies, and they fly all
over the city like great rectangular birds.
They return as the sun rises, and
whisper to the banister
about where they were last night.
