I wake at one a.m.
like a fishbone in a throat.
Dim night light.
Ticking of a watch.
And the moon
like a straw bell
tolling silently.
A house of myself,
oblivious to its neighbors,
with the glowing of ghosts
sweeping low.
I rise. totter like a gull
through the shadow rooms.
Except I’m still in bed
watching something crawl across
the ceiling.
The air is empty.
My contents are without form.
I crawl on hands and knees
through the window.
But I’m still under the sheets,
fluttery as the curl in my hair.
Is that me in the attic?
Or within the walls?
Gloom makes such sounds.
Enough to tremble my nervous beak.
I wake at one a.m.,
sleep-faced and halfway down the stair
yet my head’s still on that pillow voyage
into morning
and my body feels like a piece of string
curled around my fingers.
This is a stony cell in a tower.
So why am I out in the wind,
a delicate mast, as uncertain
yet trivial as sex.
That’s it.
Sex. In this bed. There’s someone beside me.
The blanket’s wrapped around them like a shroud.
The one cheek visible is wedding-gown white.
I see some strands of hair like broken violin strings.
She could be dreaming of me.
Is that why she groans?
I’m awake at one a.m.
Love is not easy.
It consists of many intricate notes
but is mostly played by ear,
not from learning.
I’ve learned to walk and speak the lines
at the same time.
Or lie down and think them
and make believe she hears.
My only hope is that
I do not lead her to marble
or usher her into the grave.
For now, I let her sleep like a dark wave
It’s one a.m. and rolling on to two.
All of me comes back inside,
takes up my current position.
I close my eyes.
My gaze is fully with my underside.
Comments