Paranoia past

The breathing of
my house, labyrinth
of lungs
rasp—brain against
brain, crackle of dry wind
against walnut
wood walls is the clicking
of voices in deserts.
I’m always in my pajamas alone,
until the calamitous moon strides smug
into muggy city scenes, great shines--
the glasses of of men
in homes too small
for tumbleweed children.