In this new home
I hang ricepaper blinds and lampshades
examine the slender straws of bamboo
that form crooked parallel lines
between narrow strips of cool white
filtered light.
The paper hides
peeling green paint
on the window frames
outside
keeps from me
the view
two mongrel dogs
and the yardful
of half disassembled automobiles
that are artifacts
of the bungalow
across the gravel street.
The lit paper shades
resemble large glowing eggs
or perhaps puffballs
suspended from the ceiling
diverting the eye from flyspecks
on dirty acoustic tile.
I am protected
by the opacity of ricepaper.
There are no boundaries beyond it.
There are no boundaries.
There are no boundaries.
There are no boundaries.
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2 comments:
I've come by this post too many times within the last couple of hours, thinking, I shall write a comment now. And have gone away silently because whatever came to my mind seemed like a silly fan's yell from the stands, cheering the one on the stage.
However, if I force myself to try and sound even remotely intelligent, I will say, I enjoy the colour palette this poem gives me. Pastels. It gives me a vivid picture in my mind.
I like.
You don't need to say much. Writing them works for me. Reading them works for you. This is quite good, don't you think?
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