A constellation of the retired house you’re in

“You didn’t eat my body
You ate books of my body,”
or, so said a voice in the
doormask night.

“You did not want to win
You said you would not lose,”
or, so said a voice in the
doormask night.

You are gentle Aberdour furnishings
like paths to a fabric night filled with
needle lit foothills and allegorical stills,
nocturnal businesses, tailored demurred
tempers walking into treated wood, night,
where seismic coffee shakes never politely
makes graceful stars, never giving me cover.
A constellation of the retired house you’re in.