Nocturne

Fog. Rain taps on the roof.
Someone says, it is the fingers

of our dead trying to remember
what it was like when cold

still touched them. Inside,
we sit huddled around the table.

When we long for moonlight we heat
small puddles of milk in mugs.

Why do we call it midnight
when no one knows what it is

that darkness cleaves
so one part falls

and the other,
falls away from?

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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