When I

am alone

and cold

in my bed,

and under me

are sleeping

father and brother,

warmer in theirs

but just

as alone,

and when the moon’s

no longer round

or the sun

around,

when with dread

and delight

I look at

the voices

of the night:

who’s to say

I was meant

to live here,

or that this

is my life.