My father pours oil

hastily onto the door hinges:

I don’t want the noise to

wake you.

I dream a girl

takes a long drag from

a short cigarette.

A light haze covers

the room —

it’s either smoke or

ambivalence.

Late at night, I

wake up anyways.

There’s a moth

on the window sill

and the dog stirs

lightly in his sleep.

I liked the door better

when it creaked.