Vigil
in dark, a shambles I assemble—
a listless distortion
of the dawn breaking.
It’s best I should leave
this bed, those dreams,
and steal down knife-narrow
stairs cracking in the cold
to stir bitter coffee
in a porcelain cup
and bring to life
one austere lamp
to make mirrors of windows
and gaunt bookcase
shadows lean and leer,
and expose heedless spiders
who have lost their walls
and ceilings and now prowl
the rug’s tight knots.
It’s best the day start
in dark, the stars frozen
in a web of sapphire boughs,
waiting for the sun
to melt them free.