In the night
that has long
lost its sense
of dark, dormant
things—I wake
in the wrong
places; in the
hall; on the
stair. Like some
wrecked houseplant
straining to feel
the light of
stars or sun
reflected off walls,
crockery, mirrors, onto
the dim corner
sill on which
it sits uprooted
and sallowed—I
stand half in
sleep and shadow,
with filament strips
of hard amber
glow from orbed
street-lamps across
one naked breast
and lighting up
one outstretched arm,
searing my head
from my body.