Lines Written On the Third Thursday of November

The curtains were yellow.
The bedroom was blue from the light, like a continental shelf
in the sea. Reaching for the blackout
shades, I spilled a glass of water on the sill, soaking
the pages of Woolf and Tranströmer.

Out the window, I saw a man charge
another man, shove him into a car. Across the street,
a gawker closed his glass door.
I did not want to wake you.