it is a place of rust and steel
crazed glass
greyness
open windows that look into rain
and dust that catches sunlight
others look to my world and see misery
or threat
here I see comfort
solace, confusion and promise
of betterness, of familiarity
the patina on the wallpaper;
I see it clearly
outside the skies are grey and someone in the room
is smoking
a woman, black-haired and in a thick jacket
the mirror is fake
it shows a painting of a room
because her face is not where she is
there is one window and the walls are nicotine-yellow or grey
striped like fifty
cinematic and artless this place, this chair unbent by legs
and the wood with footsteps worn in all claiming
the window pulls in, beckons her
she has heeled boots
and eyes that cannot be seen
outside the buildings stretch up in blackness
and there is a red darkness,
like a womb, like the opposite of starlight
the sound of 'maybe'
murmuring and the whisper of a buried wind
it is not a cold place
like a body it is warm, so you do not notice
this place that is you, unlike your own hands
you think back, beyond your birth
wondering if someone is there
perhaps it is me and I dream, slowly
while you wait. I think you are like me, but distant.
