When the day is done,
and the curtain has been called,
let the day be done…
Night
Windows closed and locked,
lights dimmed, blankets drawn, held close…
snowflakes drive through the night air,
I can tell only because the porch light
floods a small, poorly-defined patch…
Starlight,
star bright,
shining from impossible heights…
Don’t speak, my dear.
If you don’t say it,
it won’t be true,
not really…
If you see me
at 3am, you don’t need
to ask…
I should go to bed.
My music carves a pocket
in the still, dark
overalls of the house….
I don’t know what makes a perfect color,
but I’ve got some serious thoughts…
The moon is a lemon wedge
that’s not even a metaphor…
I wonder sometimes,
if sleep talking fits the dreams,
or if it’s totally separate…
