in my winter cocoon
enveloped in sheets and blankets
my eyes closed all day

these damned windows,
seams of daylight break
through fiber,
try and force their way through slits and lashes,
i resist
pink lids, i won’t study and map
your capillary streams / birds, please don’t sing / i refuse to perceive anything but my own inlands

i don’t feed
i don’t drink
i don’t think
i don’t move
i don’t feel

i only let

let
let
let

i am not dying though
i am working from the inside
autonomic, appearing halcyon
while transforming
all memoir of you – from idealization into unbiased slurry, and,
into something, new
into something, else
of me