The day is a shipwreck.

I know it by the way wind lashes

against the screen. The mess

I’ve made of the window

by simply ignoring to clean.

Dirt is now in the mesh,

like names etched on a tree.

I’ve come so far

as to answer the phone

in that booth across the street

and receive no reply.

Just open-mouth breathing.

From this height,

the antennae outside twist

into crucifixes for the unsung.

The wind is swiftly closing doors.

The bed has been subjected

to a camouflage of dust—

that, to my touch,

could have been scabs.

When I fall asleep, my eyes leave

wet rings on the pillow

as if I’ve been crying

all along, away from myself.

And heard the house being taken

away on the shoulders of men.

Arlene Ang (ITALY)  is the recipient of The 2006 Frogmore Poetry Prize and serves as a poetry editor for The Pedestal Magazine and Press 1. Her chapbook, Secret Love Poems, is available from Rubicon Press.