Interrupted in the Night
We were balanced on a tight wire,
but it was also
as if I’d called her from a séance or a dream, where a spider
could be the afterbody
to the part of oneself that tried to follow
the moon. Crawling across
the surface with a silver sheen.
You’re there and then that, she said, motioning off
and the mechanical dark. Legs tangled
like clockwork. A pair
of dead lilies on the nightstand.
Rose dressed like an acrobat in dim light.
We locked the window twice,
then another time for safe-
the pattern we made with a dozen candles,
which was one way of trying to figure out
one’s life. It’s lovely, isn’t it?
That’s what they say,
huddled together in the night. They say,
There, there—isn’t it lovely holding the whole world in a glass?