Margen
The whole night fits in two fingers of cord.
I pull, and the day comes in as stripes: one bar of sun for the glass, another for the book lying face down, another climbing up the bed like a cat that hardly weighs.
Nobody taught me this trade of portioning out the light, of handing the room the world in thin slices, in case the whole world, all at once, were too much.
Down below, the street is tuning up.
I raise the blinds: let it in.