I twiddle my thumbs

Every night you pocket my sleep
as a thieving magpie.

I light up the last matchstick
and watch a naked flame waltz.

You may be back with
the first step of a daybreak;

with the wheels of a milk van,
clinking. Or maybe, with the

homepage of a poetry website.
One hand-held fan of your

cloned smiles induce
such airflows to refresh me.