A Prisoner

It is December.
I listen for (don’t hear) the crows.
Oh, maybe it is November.
The clock is very old and agreeably
unreliable, agreeably so.

The room has no windows,
so how could it possibly know.
The someone in the room
you imagine a distance from.
From.

Perhaps there is no room,
no windows, no November ever.
Perhaps is a word
that is cold. The prisoner thinks

the cold will live in this room
with or without me.
The room might be a ship.
How could I possibly know?