This is a little poem also in quatrains.
With a foreshortened last line, metrically.
Very arcane stuff.
"A Shape for It."
"Sometimes when time goes by I feel it bend.
The day becomes the same white room, and the day won't end.
Its walls show no human scratch, no useless wild attempt.
And echo neither curse nor cry, but do not relent.
I wake amazed to be inside, like an inmate slapped awake while
dreaming of an endless field where the sun makes festival
of a girl's long yellow hair.
And she sways to gather her dress as she waits,
and time seems clear as air."
[CLAPPING]