Box fan chops up the light pouring
through my window.
Distorting birdsong as it rotates around
& around.
Your silhouette, casting a shadow on the carpet,
in my imagination.
Fresh strings on my guitar, standing in the corner,
unwinding, to be re-tuned.
Sitting on my bed, watching shadows run
their predictable course.
A cocoon rests on the sill, artificial framework, escaping
its organic shell.
Only to be trapped by the screen, never
saw a flower.
Just a pair of dried wings, crumbling
on the window sill.