Room 1051

From the tenth floor, I see no difference between animal and ♂. I know that what you've given me is no accomodation of both.

From the tenth floor, I
wait for all things personal
to arrive, in taxicabs, or
walking on the street, or
slipping satin dressing gowns
from sunburnt shoulders. I
fail to see the good when it arrives.
I wait.

I wait for change, an end to waiting, for
the next, the very next car to
come around that corner to
be the one which bears you
to my door, and all your colours flying,
and all your colours flying
in the flaying, thrashing wind. I
cannot bear the wading
any longer into spring, cannot
take the subtle merging,
without borders, without
soul, without soil on which to claim,
''Here I stand, come high water,
come the fever, I remain.''

On the tenth floor, I am barren; I am
February morning. I am
February burning. I am
water, I am dust.
From behind the parted curtains comes
a crooning, comes a whirring,
comes a steady billow blowing
through the ever-present window,
where the omnipresent shadow
hasn't yet made its terrain.

I am burning.
I am burning.
On the tenth floor, I am yearning
for the onset of the rain.