We’ve reached the point in the evening where
our responsible selves have fallen
asleep beside us on the floor. Now
we can talk about what troubles us.
Our voices touch like whiskers
and scratch the door.
A heaviness pulls at our sleeves.
I thought you were asleep, we say.
How much did you hear?
We put ourselves properly to bed.
Pour another glass. Something
knocks into us—
I had another
what to do.
We do not raise our arms.
We do not shoot questions.
Over time, the moon lines up with the window.
Glasses pile on the table
like small sunken ships.
It was right there
about a deer in the yard.
We point as though we saw it, too.