In the kitchen
I have water, bells, a candle.
I have a man in the living room
reading from a screen
he holds in his hand.

Outside the sun
lights paper birches.
A sky of ultramarine
brushes the rooftops
in this town so small

everyone knows the mayor's
DUI's, the young woman
with fetal alcohol syndrome.
Upstairs I have a bed,
a quilt, a book. Light shines

through cotton curtains.
My bad dreams may
come true, or sleep
could leave me with just
the shadows under my eyes

and the sin of overstatement,
as when the kettle blows
its top, or the idea
of tomorrow ushers in
another yesterday.