In a Room With a Bug

I was just sitting here
thinking about how slow
the clock moves when
the battery wears out

how still’s the wind
when the sun drops
down and how bent’s
the light overhead

when it peels off blinds
and hits the ceiling in
crooked rows, like accents
on wrinkled skin.

But then, you have
traversed the same furrows,
pressed your fuzzy eyes
into watts of light

and still felt darkening
walls closing in, the press
of gravity curve around
your slightest touch.