Oh I envy the naivety of my bedroom curtains
that flap in the immaculate cold of the morning
sighing in and out, languid flashes of light and color
from within the folds of humble coarse fabric.
What cause for such carefree abandon
such unaffected freedom
when it hangs by its feet, crucified to the wall
by a vulgar line of thin metal tracking
that proclaims the upper and lower limits
of its trite oscillations
breathing in and out
two meters’ distance
of an immaculate winter’s morning.