When there are no windows,
when in spite, when underneath
the basement surges.
When pageless, when I stand up finally
in order to face myself and because of brightness
do not need a mirror, when I stand up and think
a phone call would help
and I call my brother who asks,
have you gotten up the stairs?
Have I gotten up the stairs? Yes,
I have gotten up the stairs of my body, and yes,
I can look out the window, and yes, I see.
I see my pagelessness come to surface. I see illness
is a type of speaking more uttered, more visible,
in short, more true. Yes, I’ll go back down again,
when in the kitchen a happiness pickles.
When priested and given up.
When by force the lovely creature weeps.