Feste's Lute

Deflating night,
lurking in washcloths,
cat’s whiskers -
portents of lonely forays
slow mornings,
tightening connections
creeping through bedspreads
hanged on duvets.

The reaches of bathtubs,
with snips of old ribbons
(glance there for water
and hypnotic reflections)
A puncture forgiven, now
struggle past slats
to blue-tinted glass.