The body near the screen tests itself, rests on itself, akimbo as windowcurtains pinned
back, just a touch, green kimono cinched in pale rope, as one might flinch if
pressed into soul’s glinting weight. Quick now, quick, those little lamps
have all burned down, now your blue dune of breastbone isn’t
seen except as remembered, and I will not sleep turned
in here, will not sleep anyplace else than curled in
streams panned with gold and no, this day is no
such, pinching into its vise, steadies itself for
night’s oiled blade, pillow-cold,
inevitable, not this twisting,
not I-who-cut-out,
not I-who-knew-