From Then/Again. Published by Nightwood Editions in 217.

the clock ticks, but I can’t see the time. the breeze from the window
causes sheets to bow and billow. light filters through textiles
all around. I am hiding out. I am hiding in. I am hiding.

we used twine and tacks and safety pins. some corners tied knots.
four of us built the fort in about an hour, now it’s only me.
time passes differently when you are alone.

I sleep in the great room where the walls hang from the rafters.
morning sun: green leaves flicker on stems outside. I watch
the window. no one approaches.

the fort starts to age: seams split, walls drift, new passageways
appear, cracks in the roof. last night I was cold in my sleep.
I pulled a green wall down and wrapped myself in it.
now there is another way out to the kitchen.

soon I will take it down (the couch a spring-dented hull:
crumbs, pennies where the cushions belong) I don’t know
yet how. the fort is a good place to think.

inside, there are questions but no answers. peaks and parted
openings make an acceptable form, a temporary space,
unresolved/deteriorating resolve. the questions are patient.
we wait together, me and them.

something has changed: the fort is just a fort. I am not hid
after all. besides, who is searching?