There are no four walls, yet we live in a box.
Ghosts gather around the brim of the bed
as we lie awake, watching,
always watching, and whispering
among themselves.
I fail to tap into you--
sensing only with blind intuition,
like walking down a flight of stairs
in the dark and knowing
you're not right behind me.
Turn off the lights, let's go to sleep.
Your voice emerges, heavy as smog--
like dirty coal-colored smoke
of damp wood and pine needles tossed on a fire.
We are not only builders and breakers
of arrangements of atoms--
but weavers of poetry.
We blush the hue of memory.
Your arm stretches across my stomach
and I know you are near sleep.
We can find a crack or a slit in the box
to climb out of, if only we move on,
I say to you--but your ears are sealed.
You are caught in sleep.
And the ghosts--
they are watching, always watching
and whispering amongst themselves.
