APARTMENT
European windows, paned. Frosted from radiator steam, styled in winter weather like sky whitens in its way. This glass clears and encases; this glass transforms outside this little world. Which is insular, which is isolated in a way like weather: a flow, a stream, a whatever force unfolding beyond us. I’ll take this fog or winter bird; a song beyond the calendar. Belying or lying the day. There is light and there are my feet pacing about on the hardwood. And there are words tapping in unison, a unit of sound beside the radiator. The bird is also clear, unlike the sky; the song frosted, not unlike the weather. My feet are full and steam-laden.
APARTMENT
Hectic instants with the moon seen through seams in my window panes, frosted with radiator steam. Hexagons pattern the bathroom floor; hexadecimal code patterns the computer screen. A dream of incompleteness: the sweetness of lower lives. Watercolors spackle walls into a topography of yesterdays. Our year turns again to white: the cold pall of winter. Snow needles my skin. A frozen finger elides summer into spring into dream. The geometry of floor-runners guides my feet. Day in; day out. Outside I empty into time.
APARTMENT
Lake wind against the panes; a voice speaking to the inside with the force of moving currents. A hand to the glass to gauge the cold; a cold to remember the winter by. By-the-by and over still, the hi-fi blares in lower fidelity. A contradiction. An escape from the digital. An escape to escape the escaping of summer. The winter will not enter the apartment, except through the acceptance of daily mail. Wind swept words, paper trails, or hiding beneath the covers. Well past dawn. Dawn does not tell me to awake with the mini-blinds closed. A cavern, a cage, an empty space meant for moving between bodies in the neverland. I know an image, I forget an image. I am nothing but images surrounding me: piles of books and aged wooden tables; chairs and shelving. Mistake this sound for agreement; mistake this life for the netherworld.