in the dry winter dark,
Unattended things on the nightstand,
I see my wool sweater let go some spark,
Then another, zodiacal from my hand.
These quick constellations become an arc,
And illuminate the fabric of my flesh
Before dying. I fold my flesh for work,
And whatever I would wish
I save for the suit I must assume--
The pin-striped, worsted effigy
Whose abandon inhabits this room,
This night, and who exhaustedly
Resurrects, delivering the dead,
Charting the stars that fell on his bed.