The streetlight grays my blinds familiarly in the night,
                                                                                    every night.

Across the yard, in a field of dumpsters, a scrap of metal hits the asphalt,
rings out & carries
                            like that first pristine glockenspiel note.

I've slept so many times since
                                              I tried to name the light.
You offered one
                        I refused
            over & over.

I was so wrong. The light
                                      rippling through
            is moonlight.