9.

Last night I wandered the place, dousing the bulbs imbued
with space-filling fire that promised but weak insurance.

When I stopped at the single remaining, what it made
of the rough-plastered wall behind, for the first time fused

feeling and context, where I'd been and all the specters
I ever desired or fled as possible futures.

I thought: now I'm really here. (Whatever that implies.)
And this morning tying tie, I felt the peculiar

snag of serrated dead fingertip-skin against silk.
And I knew then mine was a madness that would be cured.