days are full and round and empty
and always seen from inside.
i only know them from the edges,
from the darkened bit above the horizon line.
and something taps on the windows
-a deeper nothing that promises less-
than the one that comes in the backdoor,
a Siamese cat in a polka-dot dress.
see, we’d be all tattooed
and covered in glory
before we’d open our faces
to the sun of the morning.
we’d slather our skin up
in chin ups to win up
the right to mate with the hot one
when she’s properly ginned up.
our nudity on sale to some sort of bidder,
we’ll never become in any real way.
but the window-tapper gets a bit louder
and in her drabness of dress, we see a new day.
but it’s living inside a bubble,
swimming in the air to preserve the swirling walls.