the blinds

I.

a simple,

what changed

is issued from my end of the bed

the end with my pillows

the ones I put by the windowsill to cover the cold

letting the stuffing sit through the chill

instead of my bones

I'm a snob like that, I guess

always wanting to leave the window open

the shades open

the doors open

open open open

even if it means catching cold

catching cold,

catching cold

I caught it anyway.

a simple,

what changed

is issued from my end of the room

the room where I sit absorbing the sounds of people

and the laughing, the buzzing

the thriving

that happens with or without me

I choose to blend in with the muted carpet

the carpet that stands outside of poetry because it's just that mundane

I blend in with the unromanticized carpet and

choose to be unintnentional in my

head to toe gray

adding the prefix "un" to

everything I see

everything I think

blending into the carpet

blending into normal

blending, blending, blending

what changed

that I can't complete the poems I start

it must be a metaphor

most things are

something about the word lackluster was

once pretty to me

now it just smells like a shuddering you

a shuttering you

it's a first for me

a closing of blinds

II.

a simple,

what changed

issues from a sideways chair in the lobby

something about black coffee

being the only kind worth drinking,

butterscotch and

storing things in a tote under my bed

I'm a snob like that, I guess

sifting through a stack of paper dolls

making a fish pool with their accessories

snipping out new ones from newspaper

even if it means a slicing my fingertips open

once or twice

sifting

snipping

slicing

a simple,

what changed

issues from the microchips in my phone

from whatever pieces that make the pocket computer work

just to play the record I affixed to my wall in august

with blue painter's tape

I choose to dive into the melodies

that swing and swoop and stop

and march and muse

behind my ears

I choose to be unintentional with the dolls,

with the albums I hang,

I choose to think less about the feet that stand on my carpet

and the puzzle piece smile they own

the one with the

I choose to think less

diving into the music

diving into the recklessness where I belong

diving, diving, diving

what changed

that the carton of blueberries in my fridge,

and not the strawberries

are suddenly gone bad but

conveniently out of my reach

it must be a metaphor

(most things are)

I find I'm heavy with them as I reach

reaching, reaching, reaching

reaching up to pull the blinds back open

one by one

g.c.s