The world is constructed as it stands
Before my waking eyes: its chairs, its trees,
My feet treading over concrete lands,
Pockets occupied by tickets and keys,
Phone and camera (audiovisual
Prosthetics), as I entertain green
Through fields, blue through subways, residual
Dreams I gather from the city scene.
A shattered squirrel on the roadside
Speaks of the perils of outside,
As I amble back from the station,
Finding home's salvation.
Then, morning, the window’s bright square eye
Of wires and leaves, birds that flash by
In sudden swoops through the neon sky
Calls me to my death, and I don't know why.
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