Becca Wild
in this house, revolutions happen with the bedroom door shut
in the blue light of the blinking, hissing television.

when the stars let go of their uniformity, i will be there. 
at this time of night, my teeth feel loose in their sockets
& i feel a soft thing in comparison to their hard, consistent manner.

i page the dresser drawers for my next instrument and turn up
shirts, car keys, and instructions to make gin tonics 
to make, 
to make--is a poem any better than a shot?

will that urge; those questions which lured you out of bed on a fishing wire 
ever really wake you?
and if you remain sleeping, will you mind the noise we make?

can the stars taste me from their bearings in the sky?
at a given time each night, they take one position and I take many. 
you may find me outside these bedroom doors again,

agreeing with this or that politic, habit, or resurrection-
or else within, turning down the lamp dimmer, 
forgiving the search, and watching the same shine of the consistent stars.