Sleeping Alone in a Small Room Poem by Gregory Orr

There are dawns when the window is white with moths,
or black with the ink they spin out of their bodies.
I dream of stones covered with snow.
Or I stand on a hill at night,
counting the fires in the valley.
Once I held a blue cup shaped like an hourglass.
Looking into it, past the narrow waist, I saw her
small, child's face staring up from the bottom.
Then thee are mornings I wake between darkness and light
and see the cloud that hands by a rope from the steeple
turn red and begin to dance.