It scares me, the thought
that maybe every morning blossom
of wild grace,
every birdsong at a shuttered window
must be purchased, paid for
with a night
of churning logic
when all you'd need
to lull yourself to sleep
is the will to conjure up
even a flickering phantom
of one reliable person, one,
one impossible human hanging
over your bed like a baby's mobile—
but your imagination
is so tired.