I am not afraid of going to bed early.
The aroma of listless dark preys
On me some nights later than others,
Though that depends on you or some girl
Who stole me in a movie house long ago,
Who has a habit of showing up in faces
Of women I know now.

                                      My indecision,
I have decided, is what finally gets me
To sleep. I pretend to look forward
To the dreams in which I pass through
The various dark of communicating rooms.
Ideas of light make suggestions
Over my shoulder, spectacled and insouciant.

Like the movies I have continued to go to,
There is no beginning or end, and women
I cannot identify seem familiar all day.
You? I think so. Yes, if it makes any difference.
And again I have said the wrong thing
Unconsciously. These reruns may be poison,
But they are my fantasy, my urn,
My appetite gaining on and on, hailing
For a configuration of numb love,
So dreams can, can
Own a bruise.