Saturday, March 29, 2014


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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