Walls

I’ve spent my entire life staring at walls.

 

Age four: my nose pressed against

two blank ones because I slapped

my sister and refused to say sorry.

 

The turn of ten: I’d sprint down

sunny slopes toward swing sets,

just to find a slim brown fence.

 

Lost at fifteen: staring sleepily

round my boxy blue bedroom,

blinds snapped snugly shut.

 

Eighteen: black silhouettes

while kissing in the dark,

holding the wrong girl.

 

Even now: mounts of

mossy green stretched

from earth up to sky,

 

fog falling forever, all

lax and limitless; I

all lively, in love.

 

Yet barriers break

at the next turn,

beyond which

 

lies the sea

rippling to

infinity

 

below

deep

and

 

end

less

air.