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But a single window
distinguishes his room
from a white, Sheetrock box,
its panes unbreakable
as tempered steel.
For weeks he’s languished there,
still too disturbed to earn
a smoke break in the courtyard.
From his lips, in his dreamwork,
flow reams of memorized
scripture. Awake, in a
daymare, he stares
outside the window at the red,
unbearable violence
of a nearby rosebush, blooming,
a dozen fragrant prophets
unrolling their scarlet scrolls,
mumbling their elusive
prophecies of lucidity.
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