Only an electrician or a phone call
from a foreign woman trying to sell another deal; people
talking to themselves—they could find me
dissolved on this couch, wiping muscle
from my chest in the reddening light.
I could never lift myself above this air, or maybe
I have: spread to the eight corners of the room,
too awake to roll into sleep—I must
be alone in thinking the walls
of a house have only one side
worth knowing. Everyone must
be stuck to the sides I don’t know.
If I don’t find myself here again
I may never be made of silence
or eat the corner of the night I love;
not lonely but alone. If I am
not welcome, I am home.