November’s flame in that year of hard sunsets, /      of winter’s plangency & days where sleeplessness  / & cognac ran together. / All our thoughts were beginnings, / and you were the roundness / that grew to a moon / above your mother’s hips.

At some odd hour, I wake—maybe four. / Shallow sleep bleached by fluorescence. / The air tinny with the rumpus of water’s / steady pelt against a mixing bowl. / This house’s restlessness is my own.

Photo Credit: Dale Robbins