Why don’t you just ask someone for directions?

Does climbing
change to clinging when
the future
intervenes,
when the outside intersects
with the enclosed box,

when the days
are not counted down
but up?—who
tells the tale,
steps beyond the dream, catches
the stray wanderings?

Each sentence
contains an ending,
and yet we
continue
building paragraphs, entire
pages of nothing,

conjecture—
the holes we dig
are far too
deep to climb
out of, and so we cling to
artificial light,

Why don’t you just ask someone for directions?

the patterns
that keep repeating
themselves, the
ceilings that
keep falling like rain behind
doors leading nowhere.