If this were a fable of insomnia, the cloth
couch on fire would be mine—
pea green—and the dead
fox, its right foot raised,
would be a waifish
Texan coyote . . .
The scent of the jasmine comes in heavy
as a past life. Like the one you left
after three and a half years in Houston. You’ve cracked
the window now so you can sleep
with a breeze . . .