I worried I’d be wasted, for this dream
recurred so often of 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,
and dash into forgetfulness again.

I used to think that solitude’s a waste
of personality. I thought I must
bestow myself. I married twice. I chased
a sprite of Iris to a pot of rust,
and found beyond the rainbow room for me
to like my own peculiarity.