by James Lindsay
Weekdays since they switched the time change, so long
and beige-bright, so open
to wandering around, touching the electronics
to keep them awake.
They watch them blink on in bewilderment. Stacks
of unread books and a stove clock that strobes
the room when the curtains are closed.
And they are closed, and have been since it was
discovered that these windows work two ways.
In and out, like a light lock.
They get it now.
To get at it, first thing’s first: ban all basements
and basement living, where slashes of afternoon
compete with smoke and aerosol for outside
air and inside voices. Their calls like small
animals who get in between the walls for winter.
They will take my island. They will come at it
from the rediscovered crawlspaces that
they have just started to clean.
For years they were hidden in darkness
until they cut down the trees that hid the highway
and let the commuters constant radiance back in.
