All night, all the cities in the thickening darkness. All night, all the roads. All night, all the houses with their punched-in eyes in the sickening, sickening darkness. I slept on the roof. I slept in the yard. I slept in the closet, under the cuffs of a dozen shirts when I thought there was something in the room with me. There was nothing in the room with me. I slept. O pioneers, I kicked in doors. The sound of hooves. We must not tarry. Night has descended and all its stars, they crackle and burn while I am left here, silent in the dimmed arena. I swear to god, there must have been a day on the beach or a secret dip in the lake after dinner. I must have walked all night against the wind once, trying to get somewhere. There must have been. I slept on the plaid couch. I slept in the house with the red kitchen. I fell out of bed and slept on the floor in a square of astonishing moonlight. I crawled there, hand over hand, from the darkness of a terrible dream. Believe me, something is heaving, incomprehensible. The house is filling up with strangers and the picture frames fall off the walls. There isn’t a word for it. Metal, powder, rust, a pear; even here a night flight, a tense change, struck like a bell. What’s that in your drink? Have you been here long? O why won’t you love me, love me? There isn’t a word for it, moonlight, slippery. There isn’t a word for it, moonlight. Through every window at once. I concentrated on the moon. I dug a hole in the sky and called it the moon. A hole in the sky and we call it the moon.

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