Area becomes too small and shrinks, too, a year, or two.
A walk through others' windows, from one peer to the next,
and somehow no one's home though everybody is and I can see right in.
I can see right in.
God, I've been seeing in so long, the houses just like mine, the ones that aren't,
the first floors and the seconds across the street and still I just don't know,
what to look for or long for or work for now,
what to work for now.
The home becomes the project when the project melts away.
A rug, the closets, how to still the dust the microbes and make space,
where to throw the projects past that keep the corners filled,
with the circle well and truly gone,
the circle's truly gone.
Each of too many points blasted away by other homes or projects
or by death, or birth, I guess, by work or just exhaustion or by age.
What once might be used again will never again be used,
and neither will you, your mind, like that,
never again like that.
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