She doesn't sleep,
televisions look hard;
decisions encompass
slight light 
in an arced room.

She doesn't know it's clear,
as babies are born 
to windmills they turn;
many days they pass
within shadow play;
how many times,
on how many streets
a repetition did begin?

She doesn't understand 
why it hurts to see 
visions perfectly 
and they go away;
Lady Macbeth washes
my fright,
a secret is multiplied 
and its teeth look hard.

She's sometimes...
It's not important;
merely known 
is the way to go now.
She is perfect if eyes shut,
and darkness falls quickly 
and it eats the light 
and sounds are liked 
in knowing
love is hard.