night reels

Sometimes you stand in the house, bent and stooped, a glass heavy for your hand, that held the carton, and you drop the glass that shatters to kitchen tiles. You pour the milk, and wait for centipedes. The light bulb clicks, glass hangs, the moths are ravenous, all carpet, hungry wings. a frame of night, fingertips arch, for corners, clockwork. And we do these things even when life is great.