Not quite a bed, not quite a bench.

Wallpaper: a grim yellow.

A pair of chairs. A squinty looking-glass.

We enter—my shadow and I.

We open with a vibrant sound the window:

the light’s reflection slides down to the ground.

The night is breathless. Distant dogs

with varied barks fracture the stillness.

Stirless, I stand there at the window,

and in the black bowl of the sky

glows like a golden drop of honey

the mellow moon.