The night nothing but an accident
to allow the cry of bats.
The telling of the window glass -
a witness, a passing -
examines the dark inside
how it explains
beyond the big shadow waking and
underneath it
repetitions.

The bay fingers the water
creeks of sulphur, and roads floating
until I don't concentrate.
Slumber no longer an extremity
though the intercom fades
and a song repeats.

The one part I do not understand
why young man wants to love me
kneeling like a Russian boxer
reading rhyme of my body.
The poem becomes waking
that turns on another need.
This one I am running.

   Jill Jones