I begin to write in the living room
From a turbid lake of water in eyes
Full of red pain, its tiny capillaries
Extending down as in the sea mouth
As a mapped knot of tidal estuaries.
I like the pretty forests loose threads
Of salt and brine with gnarled trees
And a royal tiger growling in swamp.
My living room is this, my writing.
I draw my borders,the line of a note
A boundary wall collapsing each time.
I enclose myself in a night's smells
The beauty of a word, a phrase ringing
In the chimes of a wind in a balcony.
Surrounding myself with fear of night
I await a sun outside the living room.