The walls seem larger with no pictures,
they echo ‘cover me, hide these cracks
and take away this nudity’, 
with nothing but ceiling and floor
listening, other walls
that pretend to support or cover.

There is no way to escape
from these smooth planes that stared
calmly as I wrote:
		      not through the window
where the wind that breaks through screams
‘I have an alibi for the April grave I make’,
and blows pollen onto the wet paint
                                    and not through the door.


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