Member Rara Avis
I stay up reading,
lines of ideas meeting other lines,
crashing into dawn.
Tangled mealy-mouthed words
gasp for air in the melee,
an excursion and excavation,
trying to remember last night's pull.
How do you do, my bedside lamp?
You filter softness to open pages.
I cannot resist the promise of
losing the pace.
I cannot sleep.
Sprinklers, sirens, late-night cats.
A language that dims
with the coming day's rays.
If I could take that truck or train
that bellows notes into the thick
and dying vines of night,
I would not be up right now.
I should not need to keep my thoughts
in lines that straighten
as they curve
and break like early dew.
Touch the pane and find it wet.
I watch the mirror bored with me.
A shower is an empty room
at 3 a.m.
And when I twist the steps away,
back to bed, to lay and lay,
the pillow warms, the moonlight slants,
and breaks down silver in the distance.
My clock cannot say that.
Oh, it lies. It lies.
Oh, my clock cannot say that now.