rooms

i must make it home
i left the first fireflies
streaming in the tall grass
of the warming evenings


i've got to map those rains
and the raspy noises that
i hear in the minutes just
before the early birds

i knew i forgot to thank
that bull frog for showing
me the worth of the ability
to whoop your lover home


i'm shooing spiders
from my inner room
failing to realize
they attract the birds from yours


somehow the great distances
i will go are tiny when i hold
them to the sidereal of time
in my orbit of your soul

still i've got to catch

that late light through the leaves

or i won't know how

to smile when i die

i like the spiders but

why do i insist they go?

i'm leaving shrugs and moans

where my pen should be

the fact of the matter is
i am guided by the rooms
that i will build, made of windows
made of letting in the light