it’s sort of like Duncan Sheik’s “Home,” i guess

4/3/06

god, it’s like a cloudy morning, awfully a Sunday
much akin to the ones where you glue yourself in
with no movement except for an exotic
excursion
to the kitchen for cofee
at two

god, it feels this way for I’m tired;
i’ve spent hours
between these sheets for years, never I’ve moved
not even for drink
and oh,
it feels the way heaven must

but, god, even that high place above and holy
must someday become a burden I trust
when you’re burning for what’s beyond, a sky of blue
and earlier coffee, for perhaps not one but maybe two