Is smaller than it looks. I pack
the refuse so well, cram crumpled
sheets, working like an Aztec mason
with the world's great balance:
at the apex, memos, rumors of events,
colored calendar leaves.
Next hieroglyphic notes, then wrinkled
sketches, dry and yellow manuscripts,
and at the epicenter
ringed notebooks, pliant
but very, very hard.

You will never move me out.
I've tunneled through the walls
where the mold had eaten out
perfect circles larger than a person's head.
I can bolt the door, fuse
the lock and stay. There is plenty
here to read, and food
is not the issue. I've filled
my bottom drawer with Tylenol
and gin. There is no hope, get
used to me.
I'm here for good.