The slow and sullen wind that lingers
in the corners of my room, compact,
brooding, breathes in, breathes out,
sighs and shifts, rises, falls,
gives up, gives in, gives all.
And yet I walk across the floor,
heedless of the warnings given,
knowing full well the purpose of boards
laid so tightly, laced to form
the plane of separation between us
and all that is evil; how without
them we would sink forever
in the fibrous dark of our being.
And yet I imagine windows, doors,
and walk, walk across the floor.
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Video production of the author reading his poem.
