December falls asleep and is no more December. Inside my placid travel to overturn of dreams, I cannot see the imperturbable surrounds eclipsed by eyelids. Window-frames are hinted at by lamppost light in next street. My thousand bedroom objects of transitory delight may as well sleep another sleep. Goodnight. Rooftops and jacarandas keep to their regime. A feral, or a possum, bumps empty flowerpots on the moon-clouded side of the house. Spiders star-jump their threadbare links. Sound that could be a plane or music temporarily drifts over the old subdivisions. Breathing’s closer, calm intake of nostril, mouth, and matrix skin.