I am making my hand into a camera obscura. It is hard work, very hard but I am making it until I am free. I have a pretty happily battered room At the end of a hotel with a slanted door And air fresheners attached to the sink faucets. I will not go back until I am fair and finished. I wait and I sit by the black ocean Eating my cake with a fork and grating. The manager watches from the door of the office. He is old and he likes to look at the young, beautiful things of the world. I hold my hand up right in front of my face. I have five leaves left. Excellant. Excellant. I walk the powdered white line to the bathroom And wash my face with water pumped in Straight from the black black ocean. There is so much black plastic, tape, And light holes to be done yet. This may be my last day. And with it my last sit by the ocean, My last cake, And feel of the managers stare. He is old. I am not. The slanted door slams behind me And I hold my hand up right in front of my face. I have five leaves left. If this were a line I'd be first.