Three A.M.

only imagine the seven sisters

descending. The moon’s lost

behind somebody’s roof.

Marking time:

the ice maker, a car

on the street, the whoosh of furnace

on then off. A monk bending over a flower,

sees crucifixion, sacrifice,

names it passion, passiflora.

Christ. A woman should have the right

to choose her own fetters,

black nylons and a whip. Wet them,

she says on late-night TV, the ropes.

They’ll shrink as they dry, bind even

tighter. And here, a gag—

but he’s gone, her young lover,

disappeared off screen,

her door left standing ajar. Monster,

his parting shot. It’s a sign

of winter, the setting of the Pleiades, passion

flower extract in a glass.

A gentle remedy, the bottle says, to help

with sleep. I swallow drop after bitter drop.

Not a hair stirs,

the beast already nodding off.