Address to Night

Find yourself put out on the street like bones
for a wire-haired dog, find yourself lost
at the next bus stop. The maps are all veins
you shouldn’t trace back to a perfectly

well-beating heart. There are places you can’t
visit. In this room, family only. Recovery
isn’t done by halves, or even full pockmarked
moons. And I have loved your low harvest, your thrush

of cold; I have felt it sit on my shoulder and
sing. The pool at night, all the light inside
magnified by absence, the girls night
mermaids – streaming hair illuminated

by your nothing. The place you terminate
is where I choose to love him. Don’t drag
against my door; the lights are on. We’re home.