Scattered thoughts & bricks
of concentrated Otherness pile up
atop the desk. To read is to
escape. To write is to try & form
sentences; collect the puzzle
pieces, holding them each to the light,
sit & consider where they
might fit together.

Happy Sunlight
filters through the glass
& becomes Sad
in the stuffed room.
It stretches out on the floor
& waits until it is finally
time to go to bed.

A painting hangs on the wall
of a woman who is either in pain
or in rapture; there are birds
in her hair (flowing beyond her) &
they hold colored strings gently
tween their beaks: memories of lost
loves, probably, or
something that deep inside,
She will always carry with her.

The aching emptiness
of the room seeps through
the vaguely floral wallpaper
& evaporates into the air,
already heady with it.
I breathe it in, & feel it
reverberate in my lungs, my heart, my
veins, in every pore. my body arcs
in what I suppose is passion.