in the comfort of cotton too hot,
in the sanctuary of these four walls,
pristine like the underside of a clamshell,
the trees framed by the window are
nothing more than an artist’s rendering.
but there is more to be done here:
the cracked cranium,
the leaky sink,
the chipped bed-frame,
oh the dust is everywhere,
born of things decaying.
i make the rounds,
i live by the sliver of sun,
the flickering bulb
as i chase my shadow friends
i am the eye of a storm,
je ne peux
même pas m’embrasser.