Made plainer by some unsubjected thing, it’s
almost morning and the crows are envious
of the utopian (x and y splayed
across the bed) bed with the clock close beside.

Let’s keep it here. Maybe it’s not a question
of address. Maybe it is. With every word
the “I” and “you” becoming separate beings.
I’ll check the mail, open it with my hands.

Or maybe not. Maybe the lattice and ladder
tell a different story, and what’s a ladder for if not
for our use, the “I” and “you” in the story,
the conditional tense held close.

The only way to know a room is to leave a room.
The white air around the curtains was so Flaubert.
Poetry is not about power.
The interpretation is a red ant.

The stories we have of identity
are held like friable glass around the old skies.
The only way to know a room is to find
it suitable, kissable even. Ole!

Made plainer by some unsubjected thing, the king takes his hat
and builds a city from the remains of the water there.
The only way to forget about his room is to know
that he has only one, as do each of us.