The Time House

There is a house with innumerable windows across the front of it.

I look in many of these windows at once
with my many eyes, some of them
are still moving and haven’t
found out how to be still.
I watch myself in others.

Inside, women bathe their old bodies,
shuffle about, press their thumbs into tomatoes
and their own skins, and wait for them to
recharge.
Their husbands snap curls of green
off the ends of houseplants, the ancient
habits of circling houses, waiting, living,
sighing,

the house closes.

What if we found it?
one of them says.

And the other just says no, we haven’t found it yet.
We’ll know when we find it. And I don’t feel
anything right now.