Night-time glass glows black,
iron radiator’s hulk thrown back, dry air
catches in throat, dark early, hundred-years
sleep war begins, tundra bears down.
Closest you get to actual ghost-hood:
child’s body falls out of bed with a thud—
corpse tossed in a ship’s hold.
Closeted laboring, enlarged heart
of the dark. This is how it hibernates, my I—
still alive in its glass coffin, fake
sleep around the clock.