Mass

The batteries in the clock are dead
or crazy.

As I undress in the dark, my mind is wrapped in a woolen quilt.

She snores, my dear, my dear snores
What else?
A kitchen sound. On the roof
something scratches—mice with
Death masks
flying kites as
sharps as knives.
I will take their place soon.

I let one eye crack open
and look at her head. It looks like a hill, a battlefield.
The herd sleeps in the grass, their heads
sniffed by Bengal tigers.

My heart has been polished under its fabric.

She snores

and weakness flutters out of her mouth
like a moth.