This room is only substantial when
the light hits the clock face
and casts a second sun onto the ceiling,
its single eye unblinking,
tireless as time. It watches me as
I watch its handless face
from the floor of this weary, weary room,
for this is where I lie.

I am waiting for the light.
I am waiting for the third sun
to annihilate the window and the mirror
and the clock face. I am waiting for
my body to be cauterized, my hair to be burnt
and to vacate like a shadow
in the dark. I am waiting,  
for this is where I want to lie.

This room is no longer substantial.
The curtains are drawn, a thin sheet
to forestall the burn of light
I am waiting for. I sit at the desk,
as I wait, professing onto pages,
for this is where I lie.