THELMA
T. REYNA
It’s Midnight
and I’ve tiptoed to
windows black, to gaze beyond
treetops at the
milk-moon, ensconced among
fluff and shards, where
we’ll all be someday: so
high, so high, so
chilled, alone, almighty, small,
remembered and
forgotten.
wee hours kill and
soothe, detritus of the day just
dead, darkness
portending what lies ahead, comfort
rationed in swaths of
silence.
wee hours tug me to this
glass, to hallways
lined with faces ancient
and somber in
vigil, faces lost to
decades of dust, awakened
at midnight with me and
the moon so high and
round and
unattached.
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