Now I have three time-zones in three rooms 
Kitchen is the new League of Nations 
Here I am in my tree-facing room — a dot on a map 
like an island 
A succulent in a blue tub — no visitors — same nightmares — 
seven old drafts of longitude and latitude 
on my table beside two books of Wallace Stevens and yellow air 
I don’t listen to music at present 
It distracts 
from my immediate concerns like — sleep and remoteness

I have a hospital in my breath 
and I talk to an old mug with three scratches 
and to a horse chestnut with a broken arm 
This is normal 
when you have lost faith in Descartes

I watch the cirrocumulus clouds stuck on my window net 
Peeled plastic paint — a strip of vitamin C — my floral bedspread 
On weekends, I wash all my masks (mostly black and white): 
each for a day, even for my staggered sleep 
and clip them carefully on a clothesline in the balcony, as if, 
they are my dead faces for the week