It’s after midnight Christmas Eve.
It’s cold and there’s a spider
in the sleeve of your winter coat.
You won’t know it until morning
when you find five bites on your right arm
like memories you can’t connect
with your present. You are old now,
not ancient, but you have
your own apartment in a city far away
and friends your parents do not know
the names of. Your breath hangs
in front of your face in this place
of your childhood, the neighbours
who have moved away and the lights
left on in houses going out.