Not yet sunrise, and in an upstairs window
behind a curtain across the street
a silhouette puts up her hair, leans forward
ten degrees to set her breasts in place
before an early shift.
Drunk alone and up all night again
with mute and stupid hopes, but even I
know better than to speak,
not well enough to look away.
I lean against the sill and let the focus fade.
Her light goes out; when dawn begins,
my head is hot against the glass.