Eventually the scars become glitter
on the skin—small stars. The damage
caused by what or who, a journey
into a hidden solar system—night-
mares (spectral horses galloping
through a galaxy of terror). My bed
is placed toward the door under
a crossbeam in the ceiling, crosswise
over the floorboards, in the direction corpses
are carried out—feet first.
The rays of the moon fall across
its sheets—always messed.
Each morning they invite all
spirits to come in and rest.
I would like to sleep now—dream less,
but someone has hung a blackbird’s
right wing on the closet hook
and no matter how I try not
to look at it—I look.