it’s morning —
i’m hoping you’ll get up and
pull back the curtains from
your windows so that i can
see what you’re thinking about.
i’ll peer through those shining
panes into the house that is you.
where did your furniture come from?
who gave you this book?
did you find this bird’s
feather the summer you were
six, and then the other one
on the lawn just yesterday?
apples and oranges are
similar in german only,
but do you have pears
in your fruitbasket?
i want to see the mental
snapshots on your walls.
do you dream in black and
white, or in bright colours?
what music fills your house —
not the peppy pop stuff you
hear all the time on the radio,
but your own internal song?
now it’s almost bedtime, and
i’ll have to go, but before that
please tell me a story —
tell me the story of you
