White Walls

POEM 18

On the night I arrived in great need of rest, wanting to shed the weight of my skin. I had been carrying the picture of this room around in my pocket. I could sleep for a week here.

Although comfort is cold in this blinding bright space?

Its shiny whiteness could have its light doused, diminished some.

But still, I could do a drunken waltz on the hardwood floors and inebriated with fatigue, ball up like a cat in the mommasan chair.

I brought a thick downy blanket, but no curtains for the bare, frameless windows bringing in the night.

The walls in this room are like pools of milk and so is the bed. Me too tired to swim–I might drown here.

 

 

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