in the wide opens,
desolate indoors of my room,
so many curled books alone,
far away, unarmed from me,
suffering, still, as i do apart,
in the shut in air, i can barely
breathe, with hollowed lips,
in my room, wide opens.

pretty pictures i shot,
shrivel on the plastered wall,
simple gifts I took of you
and the sun penetrates
only in muddied drops,
like desert rains tear
from the mercy skies
on to wastelands of dust.

in throws i bury myself,
with pillows of clean suture,
for the pierced heart wounds
bleeding, patched like warring tartans
indoors, i die in a meadow, bedded,
my faint breath scented with yours,
blankets blink a wild printed field,
specks all, unopened flowers.