Outside your garret, voices.
And you might use them.
But you prefer the inner
mausoleum of desk drawers
and the burial shawls of clean
white paper. It’s a cover, you
say, for you really are the bee
which through the window
comes and goes. In truth, you
too have honey on your feet,
and the doors of perception
are double and open in you,
and this is why you must
pollinate the open laptop
and tap all ceilings in an
agitated buzz. Still, the wall-
paper’s dirty flowers tell your
lie, for they do not live but
behind the mind’s fence, each
one an inflamed wound that
you alone have tended, and in
that inflected garden is a tomb.
Prometheus Unbound 