It is always the same—
a carnival of rooms,
exit signs
leading deeper
into the labyrinth.
There is no unseamed
clearing, no door
that opens onto
anything else but
corridors of my own
desires. In the corners,
the nervous skitter of flesh
or fur. In the rafters,
a mutiny of wings.
I walk and rest
and walk again,
as daylight tints
the tops of trees
glimpsed through
a vestibule. I eat
the things I find,
I make from twigs
my little fires. I fold
my coat-sleeves underneath
my head to crease
and cradle sleep.