–after Patric Dickinson

All the doors are locked. 
The dog’s been walked. 

Each tap, each burner off. 
No dome-light glows in the garage. 

Through that cracked blind 
the streetlamp doubles 

as your moon. You sleep alone 
but this bed’s warm. 

Your dreams won’t paralyze 
or force contortions. Your face,

though pocked and stubbled, 
softens. The ticking clock  

has gone; your pulse
marks time, throbbing 

through the splinter
burrowed in your palm.

No termite, no errant spark 
will test these walls tonight.