Confinement

How small it has become,
how nearer the horizon:
not morning’s bright arc either
but evening’s slow demise.

How close everything now:
no need to move or stretch,
or walk towards the door.

Except the Past: it ever stretches
like a narrowing corridor behind,
dully lit by a shaft of sun
reaching through a misted pane.

Bodies flicker. Voices growing more faint,
as though carried by an offshore wind.