I sleep alone. He sleeps in three pairs of two shoes, some sloppy and large, others infant-sized. He sleeps around in them, clocking his body as night moves, his hands, feet, penis, nose, all warmed in turns, the spiral of his rhythm. I sigh. Take it in, all of it, where it fits, deep ones, the breath
takers -- they may redden by this truth --fit best under moonlight, pinked by promises of shame and delight. His shoes seem unworthy. His shoes know no ends. He parks them in daylight hours at corner rest stops, unattended, trusts in others, washes his hands. I sleep alone.