With my tired eyes,
I look out to the black figures
That shelter in the shadows—
Yolky, orangery rooms, scattered;
Passively lit lives for me to see
And feel, once more, alone.
I try and seperate
Each of these passing rooms,
But they congeal as one scene;
Each warm cubby, filled with life;
Me as I always am, an outsider,
Scanning pitch planes for glints.