The effort of day is taking it's toll,
ringing out over the evening coffee
sluicing up the shoulder blades
flooding ever into thoughts.
It's physics an opposite
reverberation
tightening up
a noose of purpose
of work never done.
the unfinished tasks
that waken sleepers
Wake up! The dark
tricks your eyes!
It is not night and the day
is calling on the horizon
bloody and violet
with it burden
dragged toward you
Apollo's horse whipped to froth
and sunrise
Stop this. the stars
make me frantic
with excess.
They are wasteful and
fade before our eyes catch on
to their nonsense.
The sky is not awash with
starlight,
it is not a glittering
champagne glass.
It is a cold grave
with small fires
candles that blow out
with the slightest breath
of visitors.
Each wick a well
that ends in
an absence
of light.
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