There is a name I am with most nights,
And most hours of most nights.

With sleep lifted like a lid from my
Eyes one bed-time I sat under the Golden

Ash so the moonlight could dapple it upon my
Dress within which the name slid in

As a lover into bed. A cat jumped down from
Behind me and flicked away, silver brows and

Claws, into the shadows. As I lay on my back,
Half in the black, half white, my legs

In the moon, I watched fractal branches posed
Against the light, then found myself say:

If we could ravel out into time
That would be nice. For in twilight we fall

Into furious attitudes — echoes of age-old
compulsions — at the edge of consciousness.