THE MOTH

For Virginia Woolf

First, I am falling out of love,

falling giddy out of the gown I put on

to take it off, out of lace

and satin underthings, hooked and eyed

as if they were the object. I am

falling out of the lamplight

where those nothings lie, so beautifully

empty, shining like puddles after rain-falling

out of that wave ticking constant

time against my heart. Out

of my mind. There is,

in my last room, which I am

falling out of, only a lamp,

a clean desk, floor scrubbed bare,

one door to latch and lock, bed

with sheets pulled tight enough to hold me

falling into sleep like a stone.