* Passing a night in September 1 His head aches. Little moths fritter in flight beneath the light, too small to matter much, & the distance is great from one side of the bedroom to where she sits, reading her book, the calm of a storm. He sneaks a glance her direction, in rhythm with the clock on the bedstand. The slow pulse of pain in blocked sinuses, a counterpoint to his thoughts. 2 The moths absented themselves (so he hopes) when he dimmed the lights. A fly crawls on screen, the football game's on, but he's stopped listening. For her, sleep came an hour ago. She softly snores. Someone he doesn't care for is winning. 3 The book is bent open along its spine. Page 223, the chapter on the line as it relates to the sentence. How syntax creates tension, moving from one clause to the next, for one's readers. The milk by his bed is forgotten, & warms until the taste is intensified beyond drinking. He closes the book without enclosing her bookmark. 4 When she awakes, her eyes see a flutter of blue lights, and then some that are brighter, yellows and reds flashing. He's rolled over to his side, pulled all the covers away leaving the cool of the room's air to bring her back from her dreams. She stumbles in rising, half-grey, half a mixture of rainbows, & lifting her hand, finds the remote's power button. A click heard by them both. 5 On the opposite wall, up by the ceiling, moths are waiting in dark shade, ever patient. They have faith that the light will return in the morning. No one else rests easily. The night's temperatures are too varied, colors too few, tastes too sour in their mouths. No children smell sweet to lessen their feelings, smother bitters with fruit.