We start to burrow down into the house,
like animals circling, circling,
to press down a sleeping place.
The shadows and the gentle light from the window
shuffle on my notebook as I write.
You can't see them, can you?
I wish you could!
I wish you could hear the morning fire
cracking in its black drum;
I wish you could feel the peace and lethargy in me.
The mirror in this pale place
turns its nose up at my bulk.
Why do I feel so ashamed,
when bulk and weight
are so highly valued in the walls,
the furniture...even the garden?
Once upon a time,
all the knots in the ceiling and walls
would have been faces.
I would have felt them watching me.