We stay inside.
Inside our everything we talk about memory. We lapse
into questions. We look on the bright side.
If wisdom comes with age and anthropologists study the way we increase,
we must then measure our everything.
We stay inside
and becoming westerly. We feel
there’s no purpose for old people anymore.
And the world stays changing.
We crawl inside our rigid skins,
blanket the care,
hand-cup the ones we lean on,
and seize on the children of man.
Inside, I light the warm orange of these four walls.