pre-dawn

In the night I lie awake,

fearing to myself

(am I wrong?

am I broken?

can I change?)

and the headlights in the street

chase crooked shadows up the wall

and by turns both fall on

half-white canvas, on brushes

in the mason jar, on

the rigid spines of my

poor, enduring books,

and I listen to the hush

of a single passing car

that free man

that never-been-a-passenger

in his life, and finally I myself

am chained to the wall

by headlight and by shadow,

and I listen to the clank

and I fear both my strength

and my fatal flaw.