Too conscious of our need for pillows,
he rises from bed to walk the streets.
No need he thinks for underwear or other gauze
to dress his soul. Because he is alone

This late at night we can forgive
his need for walking out beyond his robe.
He is that near to seeing himself
as a sleeping coil on a marble step,

skein of flesh as subterfuge from head to toe,
that all the night becomes his clothes.
The light of day will clear his head
of false details, or he will fail to make it home.