The hotel rooms - anonymous homes
and the broken sticks just land in a heap.
I cannot pin the last corner up,
so the map lies in shadow.
I'm edging toward the end of the line
to look onto the two-dimensional
end. I so hope, forever, for that
home. And despite the weather,
the cold and the damp, I'm whispering
through membranes to bring a
world into focus. The daylight
is just another careless choice
to go along with my blinded
scrabbling and stumbling, with
one wish I'd be underground,
hidden from having to hide my face
behind pillars and books, from the
sun. I'm not sure there is anything
left to desire, but I'm hardly at the end.
No, not yet.
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