Houses under a moon are vague.
In dim pulses, restless ghosts aether beat against windows
making us omen-readers all, who pass them on return
from day labor to this necropolis of light.
Somewhere in fabled despondence this scene
was a metaphor of exclusion; the bright interior
outside me, and thought warm, full.
But domestic glow correlates with nothing definite, save
for these soft adulteries with easy feelings
against a frigid night’s withholding.
The spirits are opaque, as blinded windows
and I discover my longings in the meaningless Morse
of TV lights, practiced as a hotline psychic
at embellishing eager leads.
I live in a broad circle, this its paranoid nadir —
the bright, regular pulses so much like a signal
made for a passenger of dark, heart sparked
to the meaninglike contrast that cloaks its own
being nothing in particular.
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