The fine hairs that trace her temple
have snatched the weak radiance
from up above, like a school of shattered
pearls in tune with a perfect
static motion.
She sprawls
over three of the sofa’s seven seats,
the cold is sharp
and the room seems bounteous
beyond its limits,
like the walls are ready
and willing to be wiped away,
and in the gloom
Morning crouches
in the furthest corner
weaning herself off of Night
one moment at a time.