Open windows terrify me.
And the empty cartons lounging near the door—
They radiate like neon lights.
Portents of my mechanical membrane, cubed shapes
Curling and unfurling like flags:
How am I to know their immensity,
When all I can see are these motes gyrating
In their presence, frantic fireflies annihilating histograms?
I don’t need this, you see.
Sometimes, all I want is a bucket and a sledgehammer
And the cartons hanging upside down on the ceiling
While the lights continue to flicker and rain.
(these windows won’t go away)
One day I can finally pick up these clothes
In the corner and start to uncrumple them.
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