This is What I Do
Sitting here, poaching small pieces of the past,
turning them into textures,
putting them into rooms that have never been,
letting a sun that does not shine in though windows.
At night I walk through these rooms
as I sleep,
at night they are as real as the house I live in.
It is always the day before we open,
the last remnants of new paint in the air.
Waking in the night I reach over to touch skin and cotton,
to inhabit the ghost world of the in between.
These hours are no more real than the model on my computer.