Introducing the Hibernating Box (I Call Home)

So much energy spent playing nothing,
the green light of my sound,
peering into the black,
of a fan-blown room.

The only sound of a restless sleeper,
folding and unfolding sheets,
rearranging and retrieving the pillow,
creaking up and down the steps to my loft.

A source of distant speech lies on wood,
creeping towards an equilibrium,
lighting up under the cover of darkness,
telling how soon the morning comes.

In the drawer and in the bag,
the simple socks of a day's walk lay,
rolled and wrinkled, white in all,
here lays the essence of my kind.