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Poem	I. Insomnia The bulb at the front door burns and burns. If it were a white rose it would tire of blooming through another endless night. The moon knows the routine; it beats the bushes from east to west and sets empty-handed. Again the one she is waiting for has outrun the moon. II. Old Money The spotted hands shake as they polish the coins. The shiny penny goes under the tongue, the two silver pieces weighted by pyramids will shut down the eyes. All the rest is paper, useless in any world but this. III. Home Movie She knows that walk, that whistle, that knock. It's the black wolf who sticks his floured paw underneath the door. She tries not to open. One look at his face and she'll drop the gun. He will pick it up and turn it on her where she waits, her eyes shining, her hands over her head. IV. Golden Boy Whitewashed, the eyes refuse you. And so the mouth must be serene, the muscles play, the body take an easy stance to divert you from the two boarded-up chambers where someone has died. V. Washing Day Each year her laundry line gets lighter. One by one they disappear, ten little Indians. They take their socks, their jeans, their stiff plaid shirts. Above the Ford on its concrete blocks, striped and zippered, her cotton dress flutters on and on.
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