The rhythm of that hour
Before the heavens wake, how
Strong the grip of Midnight
Who hides intent, kidnaps
memory and kills
all confidence.
This easy turning hour should descend
familiar as the oldest friend, but she
Is unreliable and cold. She flirts, then stumbles in,
Then like childhood, is gone.
I sit in darkness and watch for her
again.
We are not blind, but buzz
As insects drawing hints of circles on a pond
(We too are imperfections in the shifting ink) —
As the graying cleaves another waking sky
from a sleeping earth we wait, like summer
for the firefly.
