The design of outside—
The lake perfectly flat
And the sky—how does it create distance like that?—
Diminishes my poems’ pride.
The tiny houses, with breakfast inside,
And the morning news, these houses
Belong to the world outside—
Which eats away at my poems’ pride.
I know you pretty well—
I don’t think you would deride
My poems. But the truth is, I can already tell
By the pride inside, I’m going to hell.
