Melody Of Complaint Poem by Edward Nudelman

Blue fall of night, stillness
behind an eye. In the fifteenth
hour I stop invoking selfhood
and splayed Byron on his spine.
Faith would warm my hands
if I had it, and doubt would hog
the room if I let it, but my mood
shrinks this house into a cell.
Here is where I leave my wants
and wills. A stack of papers,
a desk riddled with sheets
and letters and numbers.
Above the bookcase leaded
with broken glass, tulips
in a glass jar begging for light.
Everything, as it were,
begging for light.