TWAWLAMDSMAM:

I am going to sleep:
      the sad theatre of my body sliding shut
      all doors — heavy glass and velvet, punctured wood —
      the muffle and the squeak of it all, and you,
            gangly night guard gleaming,

      the big light that you yourself are in charge of,
            how you allow yourself a stroll across the red carpet
            before you reach across me, take your time, turn it off —

      the last audience of my heart
            rising from their seats, stunned by the sudden dark.

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