I entered the empty room.
I sat on the floor and drew pictures all day.
One day I held a picture against the bare wall:
it was a window. Climbing through,
I stood in a sloping field
at dusk. As I began walking, night settled.
Far ahead in the valley, I saw the lights
of the village, and always at my back, I felt
the white room swallowing what was passed.
— Gregory Orr, from “The Room,” Selected and New Poems (Wesleyan University Press, 1988)