I Call the Box (Introducing Hibernating Home)

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

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

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

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