Hotel Eden

a whitewashed world

underneath the whitewash

nothing spectacular, not even

interesting, but

still everything painted over, re-

splendent for what it is, an afternoon

takeover, a nap

wherein birds and pills accompany

you

escort you maybe

toward this hotel you've always looked forward to

this box of memories doesn't actually

open because it's always open

but it does take shape

it does let you know there are rooms where

you can leave the world

empty yourself out

white enamel paint, white enamel sky

a medicine cabinet substituted for a brain

a brain fluctuating between

niceties and blankness: the world

is very tiny

once you leave it

then suddenly

a bellhop appears

mouthless, courteous,

a shadow vibrating against

a white-painted brick wall

no,

no luggage

just this

("Untitled (Hotel Eden)," Joseph Cornell, shadowbox, 1945)