Dishes unwashed,
unmoved until
it's time to wash
or starve,
books
papers
clothes
a knife
a box
of tea
a towel
and a letter
on the floor.
Poster on the wall,
more books
on a shelf,
and a fire always burning.

Trapped behind
leaky windows,
beaten misty
by the rain,
my life is in this room.

The hammering mist,
like the film of smoke
on my mirror,
keeps me from seeing
as clearly as I could.

It gets dirtier
like the dishes,
and being born
is clearing off
the bed
the floor
washing
the dishes
taking a shower...

Waking up
with my black
curls looking as if
someone had slipped a
box over my head
and a pillow
that's developed
topography during the
night should be more
of being born
than a clean room.
But I,
reluctant as a rusty heater,
wake to a ritual
of fumbled glasses, that
mist, then slowly clear...

The mist
takes over
last night's dreams,
the morning
is swinging legs
and reluctant matches,
squatting naked in front
of the fire.

I am born into my dreams.
My days are fire and ice
and rusty walks
from room to room,
mellow as a light green wall
but never quite warmed by 
a fire always burning.

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