I haven't my glasses on, it's all Monet-vision
under the belling of a horned owl from a column
of shadow, a fretwork of wind in the unpruned
mimosa's barely fragrant diluted-blood colored
flowers, the beetle-scarred linden, scent sickening,
starkly silver in moonlight. The crash I awoke to

may be nothing, a dog at garbage, blown-over
deck chair; I am in awe of this gorgeous night,
so grateful to be alive I'll face any danger, brew
the ax-murderer lurking downstairs tea and say
take this, it's French Breakfast, my favorite. I'd
lead him from room to room, point out the silver

spoon's anthracite patina; the ancient Dell &
chugging HP, four dollars three quarters two dimes
by half a Papa John's Hawaiian, these keys to the 9
year old Nissan: the cat & me, leave us alone-I'll
forfeit all but our lives, for our lives I'll fight. The
saint with unkindly eyes watches me-it's an old

painting of Jerome, not worth anything,
just old. Shrubs stir, vines hiss, the breeze, laden
with nicotinia, scatters ash from my cigarette. I
heave the window up another inch; I can't get
enough of shady blooms, moon clouded yet enough
light that yellowing serviceberry & callery pear bubbles

like sulfur. The mystery and music insects create
with desperate strength. The shining clusters
the moon makes, breaking out, of ordinary junk.