Staying in for
Winter
The sky is greying, dark;
my eyes do not open to
a shuttered sun, I slumber,
undisturbed.
Tossing, twitching, the radiator's
heat clamming close to this
skin, I must awake at some time.
I do, oh, as always cold
sweating for the cracked
window, dried off from dreamer's running.
The snows have unfallen yet,
only speckles through the morning's
sky;the trees have no lights,
colours.
I hear the shouts through drywall,
brick and steel beam: they are
there, this I cannot dent, only
block.
Turning from the cold lights
of rattling hallways, the cold
airs of outside, I lie back
down.
And stay in a night once more.
Cluttered
There are too many things
on
This desk, too many
emblems,
Too many little trinkets:
But how could I ever let
them
Go?
Each perfect, each so
well-refined,
With their broken pieces,
their tattered
Corners, nothing would be
moreso.
Then again, I’d still
sleep clutching
My nursing bear.
The clutters tugs me back,
Back to the old times,
back
To the sunlight: I slam
the
Small door, trying to shut
it
Out, to live only here,
In this moment.
This place would be too
cold without
It, the walls too bare,
the air too
Empty; and what else could
I hope
To fill the space with?
I cannot grow, like the
trees’ roots
Burrowing beneath the
frost-ground,
I shudder to the touch of
new
Soils: they feel as molten
ask
To my pallid skin.
I line them one-by-one,
All in neat little rows,
Like a general of the old
Lore, like an obsessive
infant:
I cling to these past
emblems,
Knowing none else, knowing
Not the vastness of time,
Too scared to step.
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