This is a room we visit.
But you have gotten comfortable and that's alright.
It seems natural for people like us to wait here
in the dark. After all, dark is what we know:
the color of our ink,
the black glow of night;
it's where we write these poems.
Everyone must live here for a while,
but not always.
Your eyes have been watching out the window,
gleaning out the wandering color, waiting
for the twilight to sink back and reveal the tank
of blue stars, the soundless arena.
You've let the weightless dark spin around
your feet for too long. You wait.
If they don't like your poems, so what?
Your work is like that clouded moon outsideó
not fully alive, but beaming.