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Giving Air
The corner of the room is bound by a drawstring
that's dotted with flies all alight in glass coffins.
I'd plan it as a way to set a mood,
but have yet to use it for more than writer's atmosphere.
My bed beneath and engulfed by jointed walls
is often spread about in the nude, shaken with dust,
and willing to have me in it whether washed or unwashed.
I'm thankful for the closet, which houses no bodies,
and is the only clear access to the mind of our structure.
I use it by my whimsy and tend to toss it scraps
of previous adornments which might yet be hung.
There is excess of oxygen and no one with to share it.
There was at once a warmer touch that used to breathe it too,
but after such long nights spent confined to self,
I know it's only mine.
As I forge my gradual way, I cannot help my eye,
which does not listen and only sees those who scurry by.
Seeking her, despite myself, despite all the advice:
seeking newest, loving lips to offer all my air.
