She has spent too long on her own again,
Too many months in a box she kept,
And the real box of the room is foregrounded
Only by the blinking horizontal line that burns through
Peripheral vision like a star does through the galaxy.
Always blazing and burning and shining but never quite
-well its not like a lightbulb is it-
You can’t grasp at it.
It doesn’t bring anything like a cup of tea to help,
Ease itself along the passages but maybe
A biscuit is in order, or a sandwich?
There’s no bread, so she eats a lump of cheese she broke off with her hands,
Stuffs it in her face as far as it will go.
Which isn’t far. That space is already occupied.