books lay unbound, unfettered
They wander about the house
meaning beyond their covers
the guitar is not in its case:
it lay in the disarray
deep inside it, a tune;
struggling to come over
even the window is open:
bringing not just the light
but sparkling dust mites
tracking seconds, hours
Yet they say I am closed
Biased, opinionated, broken
For I am not like others
Keeping my stuff all so open
