Outdoors

For a moment I thought I was indoors,
the sky was such a wall of solid blue.
No, I told myself, but tenderly. This here
is home. And in it you have built a life,
gently tending to the things that make it sing:
standing on this elevated platform at dusk,
where the subway rises from the earth
and swings around your new apartment,
slinking by your bedroom windows
all night long. In and out it comes like blood,
binding and unbinding passengers from stations
like oxygen atoms to molecules of hemoglobin.
I'm inside my body (the intricate clock), and outside
of indoors (that dark simulation), and inside
the illusion of a sealed in sky. Light has no matter;
the matter of bodies is melting, will melt.