Photo by Tony Wan on Unsplash

everything I do is camouflage –

wandering stars
glitter down 
to damage the ground 
and even though I am there too,
I stay untouched
being so very still
and looking 
in every way 
like the rest of the night

here I can slide between times

or petrify

at will

here I can sleep through artillery
and wake
to toast and other
domestic anchors

I can, without really trying, become furniture

and you would hardly know
I had spoken

a lyre bird 
of white noise, of background hum 
from fridges
and ceiling fans
or subtle creaks from
the house,
enough to trouble the spell of sleep

let alone lift
your pulse

and perhaps that will make things easier
for my eventual 

after which,
all that remains
will be the fluttering disquiet
of uncertainty,
of thinking
on the room
and saying to yourself
didn’t something used to sit over there?