I feared I’d waste myself: I used to dream
recurrently about an unused room.
Reminded nightly to it, I’d redeem
it from the day’s oblivion, resume
a planned inhabitance, investigate
its windowless perimeter, and then
I’d wake to tasks already running late,
soon harried to forgetfulness again.

I used to think my solitude a waste
of personality. I thought I must
bestow myself on someone else. I chased
a wraith of Iris to a pot of rust,
and found beside the rainbow room for me
to like my own peculiarity.