A room of many doors.
This is not what I meant.

Doe white walls, half lit from what light?

The sensation of option leaves quickly
as the rain that never comes.

How long am I to stagger along these walls
curseless as a ghost, feeble handed

and trailing fingers

claspless along every groove and *****
of brass, of wood, of parchment?

How to wind circles in a square?

What flat universe has swallowed me
only to reconfigure the obvious parts?

I feel that something stares through me
dull as a hammer

and I melt like glass
lungless and ugly,
watching the dead pile outside the windows

-so much condensation for so much blue.