Knob
Naked,
but for your hand,
and wide-eyed frowns,

she is spending the night
hunting hexagons,

far from herself though
retractable
like out of body prophecies,

once toadying
magic tricks
on the ceiling
while watching
bodies sleep
in the creaky beds,

one eye always trained
on the knob of the door, ajar,
and the cat licks her face,

and boys don't walk
through entryways
but rather crawl like crabs
underneath
where only the pale light stretches through.