The universe at times is simply that
aboveoften a naked light bulb disturbs.
Larvae make their earth in a chest of blond-
wood drawers; winter breaks and a sweater
slips over mea fabric thin with holes.
Above me, men's eyes have starred open,
collapsed to seism. The universe when they fell
off me became cliché, became cracked ceiling.
Why fear my rise to the water-stain peel of death?
Today I watched an old man in a barber's chair.
His universe was the woman who, mortician-like,
clipped, circled, her legs scissoring air,
her breath and comb caterpillars on his face,
and how she trimmed his eyebrows with great care.