the dark seems so much darker
when I first open my eyes,
a big night in such small room-
a sickness happening in a corner
my soul is involuntarily disturbed, roaring
behind my black hour eyes,
warehouses with broken lights
and wet brick
and I’m counting backwards
stepping over garbage and oily streams
toward blue death,
following carefully arranged maps
in braille
confused by folds and tears
and then suddenly, everything goes
patient and gray
and windows with moons appear
before my cold, child-like eyes
and there it is-
I have been growing old
without ever being born
