Purple clouds at 4 a.m., 5 a.m., 6—and the bedroom is aglow, the walls and floor made out of waking eyes, only just, only one adjusted slat of plastic blinds to see the purple clouds, adjusting blue-socked feet through rooms untouched by those clouds, black bathroom, hallway, kitchen, flicked-on light and quick across the measure of the glass door’s frame is purple, across being away, north by northwest, or northwest by west, that a rose compass somehow might be seen by this light, somehow answers How long has there been sleep?