Sunday, February 25, 2007

#306: February 23, 2007

The slatted light through half-turned window blinds
makes convicts of the figures on the floor,
sprawled like a massacre, their sightless eyes
half-lidded with incline. Around the dolls
a traffic jam of plastic cars, a zoo
of sawdust animals--and on the bed,
fields of embroidered flowers gather dust.

In fact the captive air here whorls and winds
with motes between the window and the door.
The warped wood underneath you breathes and cries
at any movement--though within these walls
disturbers of its sanctity are few.
Just those whose sorrows summon up the dead--
for whom the past is frozen, and unjust.

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