Not to sum it up too much, but you don’t
get it right the first time. Sleep, with me,
is an assortment of habits, the desire to be
paraphrased, and one milky interruption
after another. This life on the outside -
I get it, but I can’t handle it. The angel
decides what is clean. Think of: the future.
the children. the war. me.
The mysterious opening won’t go away.
Under the window, bland and disconsolate
cats move. They don’t put much faith in ideals.
They don’t fear the frontier. Their consensus
is real: all things belong to those who will
ruin them. Steeped in its arctic-blue
aura, the swimming pool is more than four-percent okay
with spending the night alone. Displacement isn’t everything-
you have to lose.