The locale of forests changes with each window,one eyelid shut signifies a deadness of character.
I wonder what it feels like to be curled up in that eggshell, anywhere but here. We always sleep and then suffer splinters from wooden sills.
Collecting debris-filled nights to throw out with the garbage has become a full-grown habit; or rather, we've always piled them in heaps outside the window.
This laying in the dirt never really helped you see the lighthouse in the shrubbery. The curtain creases are still sewn shut.
The space between the sheets could not grow wider if you yelled at me. (You saw what I did through the shutters).
We can never rest in this train of a bed that sinks through the floor; superimposed on the temporal lobe are the trees I stamp out in brain shapes.
The roar of the iron mine can still be heard from the bottom of the mattress. Apertures in the wall show strings we untied from branches.
Victims of unraveling quilts and alliances rarely make it these days. The frozen glass panes are cracking from the inside.