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.