The Blue Room

The blind is down
but strands of the sky
fall into the room,
going softly through the slats.
The cold outside is soft,
the kind that turns
as slowly as the world,
coming in at the walls,
rising with the sound of planes.

The room could have fallen
off its axis into the street,
left leaning like a bucket
in the corner of a shed,
lopsided and grey,
but you wouldn't know
because today
the air is a bed,
television has spilled out
in a puddle before the screen,
whiteness drips from the walls,
the colour and weight of everything
becomes absolutely clean
and falls.

The arc of light and motion
judders into life when you wake.
When you fall asleep
the last reel of the show shuts off
and a world of noise and colour
becomes silent and opaque.
This blue room is deep.
It breathes in from the window
and blows the light
into every solid shape
until the edges roll like sleeping eyes,
and break into darkness.