My roommates are funny.
Sometimes they do this thing,
voices — run out of voice,
cupboards — arise from nothing, even the
floor — runs out of space, but
Now my soup is stuck on the ceiling.
A funny house made them that way;
Stick doors and stone walls
That want to breathe you out, like a paper bag in turbulence.
When they looked away, that one time,
The coal window that was meant to protect our eyes
Had aged itself into a diamond.
Now the sun is blinding — to everyone.