at one-oh-nine
in the still questionable morning
from the empty apartment above
I hear footsteps
a warning
I am reading Murakami
hard boiled
like an egg
timed at the edge—
not the end—
of my world with no rhyme
I’m lying awake
next to the one asleep
footsteps on ceilings

spur delicious creep

I watch the screen flicker
it’s him not me
who will rise
with forgiveness
Veronica Lake has been
so appealing
to men who saw me
a child
a girl with a wave
before she turned over
rejected the spell
Pastor Rippe, I said
before he dozed
he called me Veronica
and my father froze
in that sanctuary
of stained glass and stone
my hair fell like
sun in a stranger’s dawn
my father’s response
it all makes sense now
who is walking
across the ceiling
who patrols another man’s floor
depends on how you’re feeling
could be a woman’s door

it is 1:12 in the morning
and all I can hear
is the window fan
like the breathe of a deer

always on
even in winter
even now when the
dulled mind is splintered
the footsteps above
have nerve to confront her
is the quiet now from guilt or murder
is the story less
gruesome as comedy
are the questions less harsh
in the light of day
when remembered this time
this unholy night
after a confessional delay
a friend tells a secret
over curry and raita
the gentle start suffering
earlier in the day
the pain starts as beauty
and often comes later
hold fast to that
in your own wonderland
when the footsteps
appear again
close to the light
cork the wine
pack the valuables
and until morning
goodnight