The unchanging
During some moments
my imagination builds
a house I like to go to;
small enough for just three
rooms: for bed, for books,
and a kitchen.
I build it along a quiet pond
where the light is always
gray in every season,
and go there when I am
changing and want the walls
to embrace me,
and to walk into the quiet
of a place I know
the smell of and I can be alone.
I go on days when I forget
everything, or know nothing
or cannot set myself to be
one thing or not
that thing at all, and stare at the walls
which stay unchanging
whoever walks into their rooms
or whether night has fallen
and winds shifted in sway
and I
feel so dreadfully human -
with the way I’m always different
or not in one place at all.
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