The quilt, incised with creases – our trample-lines to here –
and our bodies, curled into a tiny circle
in the backwards telescope of dark
and above us, the iron moon swung high,
a hammer end-on, its unreadable face.
It seems to take an age to fall,
but it falls. The night blinks
and we topple from the bed, new-minted,
accurate up to the crack of the voice.