The problem is rooms become slowly puzzled by
their gradual transformation into basements
then they turn suddenly
to shake you from sleep like a worried aunt:
it’s late! It’s late.
Lamination of shadows
overworked carpets start harping on
about duress or criminal discovery.
Air is sandy, withstood only in periods of about
an hour, and only occasionally do you try to clutch
your head, which is out in front of you.
Perhaps a swift hand-wrist-slide
over the table which has contracted carpal tunnel –
probably electric flies will spew out and spew
and books in piles in piles like those brooms
that were made sentient by mickey mouse, now
apprentice to the warming room
which you begin to seal off
with humming darkness; scarf up, eyes on the prize
of an early night. Those “Good morning!” hours.
It’s all in the spirit
of undoing the day isn’t it, it didn’t
load immediately, doesn’t submit to the tips
of your fingers way the curtains do.