Lampshade

I tried to peer into my kitchen,
unsuccessfully.
I was probably hungry.

The further part of the room
lost its solidity
and merged with the
shadows of its contents
in the glow
of the side table lamp,
struggling to extend
past the length
of its diminishing fringe.

I heard what sounded like
a thousand ships sinking:
the furnace in conjunction with
the sea,
that dripped from
my broken faucet
in between long intervals
when it rushed out
and brimmed the tub.

The activity of Sound
against Time.

The artificial light
of the bulb
that simmered
in the space between
the lampshade;
filtering,
always about to fail,
peeking through its
night-time veil,
sticking to the
pages of my books,
dimming the unnaturally white walls...

New light entered,
old light receded.