It is always the same—
a carnival of rooms,

exit signs
leading deeper

into the labyrinth.
There is no unseamed

clearing, no door
that opens onto

anything else but
corridors of my own

desires. In the corners,
the nervous skitter of flesh

or fur. In the rafters,
a mutiny of wings.

I walk and rest
and walk again,

as daylight tints
the tops of trees

glimpsed through
a vestibule. I eat

the things I find,
I make from twigs

my little fires. I fold
my coat-sleeves underneath

my head to crease
and cradle sleep.

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