Rocking in my midnight robe, I am
alive and in an eye again beside

my kind insomniac, my phantom
glass, companion and my only bride:

this little window giving little shine
to something. What I see I keep

alive. I name the species, I define
the lurch and glimmer, sweep and pry

of eyes against the faint-reflecting glass
by what they can and what I can’t

quite grasp: I see a hand, still mine, outstretched
in an attempt to catch the stars that drop

as hailstones in the grass. I see them pass;
these sleepless fingers slip from solid into gas.