The universe expands away from us
as it drifts closer. It must have been boring
not reaching something, some limit, perhaps,
where it can burst or pucker up or whatever.
Nothing indicates abandonment better than
the musty smell of air confined in a locked room.
But when we open the door, we discover open
windows letting in the wind. Maybe, the still air
inside is that part of us looking the other way, in
the direction of the door locked from the outside.
Dream of sitting for hours under extreme light
and not feeling the heat. Imagine being ignored.
Here, we cultivate winter with our bare hands, till
strange fields where even the grass refuse to grow.