Your many guests will leak in through the windows.
Angels will gracelessly tumble down your stairs,
tambourines and roman candles will erupt
from your dirty clothes hamper. And you
will be sitting on the bathroom, perhaps
with an envelope, or a razor, or a cloud of sadness
tenderly crowning your bare head. And the nightlight,
up until this point unassuming, living a life of subtle utility
since the day you shucked it from a plastic carapace,
says: now that everything is fucked,
this is when the age of wonder begins.