Year of writing 293. Inside.

10/18/12

Some days I draw the curtains on the sun,
sit in the false dark; a houseplant.   I am pot-
bound, this couch is bad soil, these
florescent bulbs nourish weakly. I know this,
I've done this to myself.  I never liked
unkempt growth, these leaves stunt comfortably
indoors.  They droop so sweetly here.

I am sure on these days that the light
behind linen and sheers cares enough
to split glass for me.  It is a game, I suppose,
of chicken. Only how does one outlast
the sun? I duck and shroud but know
the inevitable squinting and blinking
will come once the shades are drawn,
once the light makes dust motes dance.