These days I wake in the used light of someone’s spent life.
     I am often a stranger to myself;
       I have no place of origin, no home.

No ground, no figure. An immense canvas,
which I will never finish.

I know that mirrors can start fires—
and why shouldn’t they

Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration

Some nights are as black
as belladonna—the black that gathers
at the back of the throat when a boy's
voice falls over your head like a hood:

I pretend a knowing of your skin or,
beneath it, the wells of yourself, over the time it took
you here.

Then we could ride all day and yet 
not reach the farthest edge of our demesne,
its slow hand clap of grouse

I affirm my devotion to your ingenious application, allowing you to track my whereabouts across all devices.

Sudden cold or the sudden sense of having been cold for a long time 
He said he was getting back some things that had been lost like what  
Love oh great looking out across the river he wouldn’t meet my eyes either 

Give me a word for the
mourning of houses when it rains
through an open window.