Blank Verse

She’ll wake to her dream of him. It tiptoes.
It types in the room next door. It dissolves.
And the sun, eager and blind, finds true heat;
Her arms, and writing’s light; it dreams darkness.
If he lived here, she said, his poetry,
would rub-out in carpets between the rooms,
the stairwell to the hall, the cool basement.
Instead, he does. He wears down into trails,
the furnace hum, the twitch of dark matter.
The clock tapping its solitary word.
To be let out to come back in again.
If she saw him now, stripped down to a man,
would that be a kind of sun? Would she see
a dark star burning light into a room?

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