Living here was your series
of forgetting that these steeled monoliths
are not monoliths at nightfall—
angels hang their dreams here.

Your cold feet don’t come
from fear, the trembling of a heart still
wrapped in wool, papered bones that cry out in pain,
folding into horizons.

Dogs can hear you breaking, where you have always been.
A candle on your own nightstand.
This lamp flame can be real sunlight.

Squatting turns to paradox after decades here, coming in.
You learn to ignore yourself into dust.

Oh God, move nah!

Light the candle!
Talk. Breathe.
Warm the room so your soul wouldn’t freeze
when you take off your skin.