Fanlightnby Robert B. ShawnA half-wheel glazed above the door:nsix wooden spokes in shadow castnincrease their reach along the floor,ntouching the hall’s far end at last.nDeprived of full rotunditynand axle, too, on which to spin,nwhat else but solar energynwould fuel its daily journeys in?nBetween these radiating linesnthe pie-cut shapes of radiance fall.nPoured from the threshold, such designsndazzle to shame the modest hall,nand set us squinting when our ownnway in or out must cross their tracks.nLeaving the tiny torrid zone,nwe feel its brand upon our backs.nYou ask what all this adumbrates?nSome doors are slow to open wide.nBe hopeful; say “illuminates.”nMore of the same light waits outside.nServing the Purposentft. m- •-‘”‘nYou know those shims you make by folding papernover and over in a tightening square?nYou jam one under a china cupboard’s footnto stop it rattling every time you pass.nIt does the job, and you forget it’s there.nBut now, with the gigantic vannhugging the curb out front, premisesnemptying systematically room by room,nstanding in a corner out of the waynof burdened, grunting, shunting men you hired,nsuddenly you see it, oiT duty and forlorn,nlying as if pasted to a floorboard.nTo pick it up would just anticipatenthe final sweep it waits for, harshly dintednby its day in, day out stint of holdingnsteady the shelves of breakable, gilt-rimmed stuffnbrought out only to gratify the in-laws.nNow with that load pampered into barrelsn(excelsior! — the motto for all movers),nyou peer along the bare floor and gauge the slant of it.nAll those years the old beams went on settling.nAnd you, haven’t you learned to settle for less?nnnJULY 1991/19n