A man turns in his sleep, so I take a picture.
He won’t look at it, of course.
It’s his bad side, his Mr. Hyde, the hole
in a husband’s head, the O
of his wife’s mouth.
Every night, I take a pill.
Miss one, and I’m gone.
Miss two, and we’re through.
Hotels bore me without a mountain view,
a room in which the phone won’t work.
And there’s nothing to do but see
the sun go down into the ground
that cradles us as any coffin can.
The blackness swallowed its stars.
You are invulnerable.
