there are pigeons fluttering
in my eaves. I lie in my new bed
and stare out at a window
that looks into another window.
who knows what the outside
actually looks like.
skeleton fingers creep
over the sill, emerge from
have they come to reclaim
these bricks? these sagging sills?
jump out of bed, click the lock
into its proper place.
from here, I cannot see the stars.