I

the corners of a room

where walls shake hands

paints meet but never bleed

or stretch across the angles in uniformity

illusions that my palms see through

as they move to flatten the creases

making little triangles between them and the cobwebs’ Eden

like unfolding my bed on the couch

the only comforter here after the lamps say Goodnight

before I tuck them in

and the colours give in

blend

II

my makeshift mattress made specifically

measured feet to face ashamed in wake

protruding shoulders sanded at the edges

obtusely protracting the day into a never-planned night shift

midnights

where the hard-numbers and for-sures fall for the vicious

vacuum’s seductions

a Succubus, is the lady moon

for a mind weary and wary of

absolutes