The english

Sitting on an engish sofa
The floor whispers thirteen
Or rather shouts the matter
For there's a big sign
Just outside
Speaking the name

The walls are three
The other one's a gallery
With paintings made
Of orange-leaf oils
With small black smudges
Of different selves
Toothpicks or matches parading
In rare occasion, back and forth

The sealing squares the scene
It frames the narrative
And births an english wondering
Inside my european heart:

Is the gallery an outward projection?
To say, is it a window through which
I see the nativeness of the pastel
And how so beautifuly it fits this world
Or might it be an intrinsic-most deflection
Of lights out-sent and so perceived

Is it really a window with eight panes
Or, is it, might it be the illusion of a dream
Fleshed out in orange-green cotton
All cultured by my wont for inferiority?

I know not.
Call it a delusion, but this
Is the most comfortable sofa
I've ever sat on
And that the most orange tree
I've ever seen
And the sky the most soft thing
I've ever felt
And its toes, the horizon,
That's a dream.

And weirdly, queerly really,
This feels like home.

[GM]