A bat appears, zigzagging across
the twilight, indifferent
to its freedom, and I’m reminded
of the dream where I float
out of bed and up to the ceiling.
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I made this self all by myself
I drove this nail into the wall myself
I stained the wood’s grain I planed the wood myself
I wrote the book on the shelf I made myself
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In the torpor of semisleep he’d been pondering how he was going to install the windows at the Beaufains’ house at ten o’clock in the morning, if, at that same hour, he was screwing Melanie McAlister.
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