Lights get darker at mornings in my eyes.
Greying curtains and my turning of the screw
into afternoons that rain with it, this dreaming month.
I quiet my alarms and mend a bulletted door to watch some news on louder evenings. Or peep out.
To feel stories out of thick windows along tremors of sweat and smell the black of their movements each night.
My room remains dark, darker than Ebenezer Scrooge.
Exacting revenge on my rods, I blind out shadows myself, laughing.
Damn, the tremor and the shriek!
It's a way of keeping up with my neighbours.
No, not a trick!
None but to drop some news.