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.
