This is a poem about telling the truth. Don’t look for love here. You won’t find it. You’ll find the night, crusted with galaxies, hitching above the unturned chevrons of my house. You’ll find a mouse curled in a ball in the wall next to an unchewed electrical wire. The mouse is not playful. When I talk, nobody listens. I walk through the dark of the house breathing out moist vowels. Upstairs, my son pretends at sleep in his crib. His baby teeth calcify into lumps in his jaw, push against the insides of his gums. His thumb, slippery with spit beside his mouth, twitches only once. Meanwhile, slugs ravage the garden. The last of the pumpkin blossoms fold in on themselves, unsexed and heavy with powdery mildew. In the artificial light of the dining room, I cut pictures of the baby into circles and stars, paste them onto the nautically themed pages of his keepsake book. Each snip of the scissors punctuates the unleavened night. Say the night is loneliness. It’s not. It’s the thoughtless night. Nor am I whitehearted Atropos. In the basement, the cistern crackles with spiderwebs and dust. I do not place ten pennies there and return to find a pitcher full of ocean water. Inside the water, only amoebae and unrehearsed light.