– Poets and Artists, April 2011
The lake of light that pours into the window at night
is a complete mystery. Indians are too smart to leave the lights on,
and have placed a scarf ornately woven
with pollution between themselves and the moon.
But it is the only way to see these night visitors.
They move in silent purpose so as not to disturb the others
sleeping away the clock, but they disturb me,
gliding into the kitchen, out of the bathroom, over my head.
Occasionally they will bump a table corner,
or speak from their bolted lips.
But for the most part, mice make a more respectable raucous.
And yet, I can’t help but listen for them, study their movements,
appreciate their company. While they do not keep me awake,
since my eyes are already open I may as well employ them,
the way a private eye might aim his camera.
But it is only after I have forfeited my right to be asleep,
flung the covers off my feet, risen to my bearings,
catch their dull white eyes,
give into the barrier between them and me,
do I declare myself a ghost that roams.
–
