The Thing the World Wants Is Wrong

Because this apartment, this blind, this bird-
box with mufti quilts at the windows
against the street light, this sturdy stand
against the nightwith mosqito netting and
the fan whirling atop the armoire, the darkness
behind the desk,on a street, in a city,
that doesn't feel like home, the August sun glaring
and the air too still, longing for a gentler life
than the one on which I reflect.
In an attractive space,
I can't seem to roll up like a snail like
I used to dofitting myself into my shell.
And the fact is snails belong in their shells.
It's not a slug.
Having acquainted myself with the world,
it has become harder to escape,
has invaded and set like concrete,
too bold, too plain, too solid, too simple;
bring me diaphanous, delicate, lavender, mauve
too strong after all;
the thing the world wants is wrong.