The window is open, standing somewhere,
open to a door.
I walk the wrinkled corridor between dreams.
In the faces on the walls
the painted shadows haven’t faded.
Like trophy heads in a hunter’s jungle bungalow
lamps jut out,
all staring glass.
A mortgage locked by wet stamps
life insurance keyed to contrition
she rides a horse
wakes with car keys in her hand
Surely these clothes are blankets.
My breath offers silence another shelter.
My hair? It won’t wake.
My eyes turn toward something they saw closed.
fingers up northern faces
of the mildly gated
lights lost in