Tonight, the ceiling is a lid with a squared and thickened edge.
Pull it down, Rama, and clap it shut over my sleepless body.
The stars, too weepingly bright, cause my eyes to POP and alight.
This War above burns the moisture from my open sockets.
So look too, Rama, beyond the hinges, to our aggressor suns
They do roll in sockets composed of stronger stuff.
Take our body water high up to their expanding domain, and
douse those offending chromium daggers good night.
Read “Room 117 (Pt. 3)” here