I lay in bed, watching
Strips of light on the ceiling.
They looked like strings of a harp.
I got out of bed

To reach up and pluck them,
But a car passed
And they slid away
To form a barcode.

When another car passed,
Those strips of light
Became a ploughed field:
A nighttime crop of an unknown plant

Would soon sprout from the plaster
And be harvested by dawn,
But the woman beside me wouldn’t
Believe a thing when I told her about it

As she tried on dresses in the morning.
She’d insist the strips of light
Were from a streetlamp or headlights
Shining through her blinds,

That everything I saw
Was nothing more
Than shadow and light.
I’d kiss the side of her neck,

And she’d groan just a little,
Unaware I wasn’t kissing her
But the square of morning light
Drifting across her throat.