back to poemmes frites home to hellhed
horizontal reflections on grand avenue
eyes stare at a ceiling, dark
except for what the blinds cannot keep out.
i focus on these until
they represent more.
outside, angry leaves and weary branches
bend. the sound of their struggle
keeps me from sleep, pushes against my walls
until it's cold inside.
in the distance, drunken men shout
to no one, while no one listens
to the sounds outside.
i stare at the ceiling, wishing for better blinds,
pull sheets over eyes,
wish for thicker walls.