detached

i see through blinds
to strangely well-lit places after dark.
i smell the heady tint of musk:
hear the smack and cluck of voices
in their prime.

what better thing than to lie, wildly virginal,
on this small slice of ravaged earth
and touch with one's own fingers
the smoothness of the sky?

each string of cloud sings my blueberries-and-cream
lullaby;
each tree stands rabid sentinel of my cleanness.

how one squints to see icicles melt from the windows;
how one longs, like a fool, for the forest--
for the sleek black velour behind the trees.