Gradually, I shall
take the outside, and I shall
make it
become the inside—as a clever prayer
of ceremony and remembrance.
I'll put up a tiny wall (no small
miracle, first of all),
then another, and two more; all covered
and adjoining at the
others' edges.
Then, I'll take some
of what's still
out there—starting with
nouns first,
a few adjectives next,
and an adverb, only very,
very selectively—
I shall carry all I can
back here,
disavowing (not just forgetting) the rest.
I will take my meals in silence
at a modest table
with two places set—a little
transubstantiated tea and
some scalloped madeleine cookies.
And from then on, I will do my
dutiful best
forevermore: to always
dream inside,
and only while I sleep at night—
never again
outside the space I've created,
not ever while my
eyes are open, and definitely never
during the daytime.
