Inside

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In the field is a house
of wood. A window of the house 
contains the field.

You can't see far
with a sun in the sky, 
with a living-room lamp

at night. Locality is all
you light, and you, as single 
as a bed. But there's

no end to dark. The bed is in the clearing
and the clearing's in the wind; the world 
is a world among others. Now your cell-stars split.

© Heather McHugh