You get back some trash from the sky.
It’s a petal that bloomed in a leper’s hand.
Soon it moves down the window like frost
from a knuckle-bone that December rolled
across your face. It’s time for a beggar
to wink at you, and it’s time for a friend
to knock the door down and save you
because you watched midnight surround
three thousand planets and three thousand
ghosts pouting for your skin as if the earth
has never troubled you. You call it home.