To the sheets, receiving
is its own kind of knowing.
If I slough my clothes for sleep

the result is classified,
a mound. The body divested, nude.
I like to let the day fall too.

Sun, gone; curtains, limp.
We have a name for it: crepuscular.
It’s more dangerous, smaller,

the world left inside dusk—wires
stripped, current bared to complete.
Electricity that isn’t

touching. It is powerful to know
how one loses things to name
them, to touch.

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