Take away my bed, the blue sheets.
Roll it up, rattle the slats.
Take my walls, white, foursome.
Take my soup pot; pack it up.
I’ve only got myself standing in my socks.
Take the dark gust of night sky
viewed from my window,
the gap with the Southern Cross
I have to inhabit
a part of the world that’s somehow familiar;
I’m a tin mouse with an inset metal key.
Lock the door.
Say, ‘That’s that.’
Start with a wafer
thin piece of paper
with a hieroglyph
or a mute black stamp
that denotes light hovering.