Admitting the mosquitos won the war
of open window, I have purchased screens.
They come from factory instead of store.
They look attractive but their presence means
I won’t be reaching outside any more:
my hand won’t touch the rain, my head won’t lean
to let my face salute the moon, adore
the stars or breathe amid the pendant greens.

I put myself at distance from my yard
with this commodity; I built a wall
as tangible as gossamer or gauze.
The air continues free but this is hard –
I seal myself reluctantly – I fall
inside, the tiny flies my buzzard cause.