Elegy for the Inside
Even you too, now, look dead.
The light migrates to you but there is no brightening,
no readjusting of eyes to new color.
And when the plants die each week
I revive them. We all live on edges,
waiting for our turns to jump
through the walls and into some fresh time-
line full of doors and staircases, any exits
that could lead to birds. I miss the potential
of wings. I have lived in my life so long
that I feel like a tourist. Do you speak
my language? Where is the exit?
Which way do I go?