Look over me. Oh I feel dead,
Folded
Away in blankets for good, and
Forgotten.
My room is clammy and cold,
Moonhandled
And weird. The shivers
Wash over
Me, shaking my bones, my loose ends
Loosen,
And I lie with one eye open,
Hoping
That nothing, nothing will happen.
-Mark Strand
when alone simply
gaze into paint
the ceiling has
galaxies carved into
plaster gleaming
smudges of spirit
consistency cannot
hold spite
for the sky
