the fire of the world falls
between the slits through the blinds
of my window
and the trees swing
in rhythm to the silk song
of spring
time passes by the click
of the unsteady metronome and between
the notes of your guitar
so I shall remain slave
to real-world things and real-world order
(and three-line stanzas)
until the final cadence
settles
and signals
that the wait
is over.