When you have left me
the sky drains of color
like the skin
of a tightening fist.
The sun commences
its gold prowl
batting at tinsel streamers
on the electric fan.
Crouching I hide
in the coolness I stole
from the brass rods
of your bed.
From Ignatz by Monica Youn. Copyright © 2010 by Monica Youn. Used by permission of Four Way Books.