Before He Wakes
In the hour before he wakes,
before the traffic on the road becomes a river
and the starlight falls away into the rush,
I have already been careless and read too much of the world.
Heavy with hope and despair,
I listen to the soft rhythm of his breath.
How do I tell him,
when he asks if monsters are real,
that we are already in the jaws of an unfathomable beast?
I long to tiptoe outside now, into the blue hour,