a hollow space, without plump cushions
snug as velvety moles, or her clay lamp
that dappled the ceiling with shadows,
where red and green wires now blast
through a gash in the plasterwork
like the WHAAM! of a pop art rocket.
I slam tall shutters back on themselves
and a wane light embraces the dark
as I present my face up to the stars
like a moongazer seeking redemption.