When I get up in the night to stifle
a cough with hot tea, and make my way
through the black terrain of the dining room,
there are candles waking in the dark,
open eyes that never sleep:
the blue glow of digital minutes
winking under the television,
the coffee maker, the microwave.
A laptop beams its single pulse,
and the mouse beside it arches
over the red flame of a beating heart.
The rat scratching away in the attic
suddenly seems superfluous,
the stars outside the sliding door
a vestigial redundancy.
When I wake in the night and cross
to the greening numerals upon the stove,
I voyage within my own fixed sphere,
my lonely festival of lights.