Wednesday, April 18, 2012


The clean room,
all the lines like floor plan drawings:
the hallways lead to doors forever open,
the furniture is symbols,
light is now circumference,
the people theoretical,
the toilets, sinks and stairs
the only things remotely real...
It's perfect as a player piano roll.
We call it home,
but only 'cos it ends just like a razor edge
with nothing past the white but total darkness,
the only thing we care about,
the place that we can't go.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I picture a sterile place, like in a magazine photo meant to make you jealous.