Though you say
you want nothing,
you continue to wait—
like a refugee waits.
Though you maintain
that you're finished,
that you just want
to leave,
you continue to think
that a shape with no center
is a Cartesian waste
of Euclidean space.
Though you cannot sleep,
you still could not dream
the half of this harrowing
state if you tried;
its expressways, riddled with
their nondescript exits
are so familiar
you could drive without eyes,
but the great and gripping
strangeness
of the place you were made
will beg you to stay.
