The day the walls disappeared,
agoraphobia spread its viscous fingers,
I wondered at the suddenness of space,
the purpose of broad plains,
flight.
Vertigo
at the absence
of sullen hands
that brought jello cups
and compartmentalized corn.
Scents of the unknown
sharp and cold.
What scenery could be
more reassuring than the commode,
what traditions
more familiar than the must of bibles,
of nightlit books and coarse blankets,
what purpose to departure?
Except
Except
half-scribbled questions
half dreamt dreams unremembered in desperation
crumpled under the mildewed sink like:
How far does the sky spread?
And, where does the nightingale go,
after she has sung her songs
and abandons my window?
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