fake lilacs on the window turn
as we enter this space called room

in all possibility we could stretch out
beyond the window and fly

merge around the faded pink leaves
of silk to that that lies within

but we are already there and need not
defined space from which to begin

only in the pardon of excuse
when from politeness we take form

in concrete plasticity moulded
by fridays and sundays

by the closing doors of commuter trains
or the notion that we can vicariously live

through an executed will of favorite songs
believing the lyrics to be our own

for without recitation of our soul
we see only the room and think the lilac real