having lived here
for years,
there's only one
absolute
truth I can claim:
the walls may
not change, but I'm
never the same.
Like some incipient
larva—like a pupa
I climb,
blind, toward
the guileless spire
of modulation:
a feeling with no corners,
never known,
only felt-for.
Until one day, I'm up here
on the roof
of this place,
with the feeling
I could love everything
in the space:
all the carbon
and oxygen;
every lump, every groove.
But not too much—
I'd only love it
just enough,
because that way,
there'll always be
some stuff
left in the
tank when I make
my next move.
