In this house (you complain) you need a trail of switches;
the last owner took out central bulbs. The table lamp is off.
I grope past the computer to the door,
into the front room, with its scuffed thick rugs,
small deadly tables. If I reach the hall
it may be that the switch stayed down all night,
sorrow to the planet. But I am on the trail,
like moth, rose and badger, I am heading for the light.