I sit at the table orange yet brown
hunger should be invited to sit with me
I look at the place mats
wanting to see faces looking back at me
the dining room is so well organized
they left me to eat here in peace
the place mats are so straight
the knife and fork
I look out of the sliding door
the low blue toned sky above the hedges
and Barbara's house
Not able to greet neither dawn nor dusk
Dinner at six tuesday said
almost summer forever
No time anymore
the table is empty
the movie is paused
yet I move around the room
Inside the collective identity of my old home
a skeleton rebuilt from undrained details
It stays that way for a few thousand years
but I turn and greet the rhodadendron
Through those big edible windows
my grandmother's paintings
like this very place I find myself
still and eternal
A surface I laugh in patterns and colors
motionless like those paintings
looking in at me as much as I do at them
almost a converstation with the paint
with a programmed avatar
The carpet is thick
so if there would be an arguement
The sound would be completely absorbed
The climbing rose can be seen through the kitchen window
spreading toward the old head pine on the cusp of the hill
It's not a head anymore
sunday morning spoke up
and described it to me in those old infinite blues
The ones I'd hoped the future would be colored with
infinite yearning in the static
If I could only elaborate
In the thick of this umbrella over existence
confined here
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