Media noche

Night after night, resisting
with bites of food, a few

more piles of work
then shot glasses filled

with tinctures that mimic
the bracing heart of a wood—

Everything’s still shrouded
with the chill of winter,

and sleep is the angel
that wants to guide our feet

toward the tomb. But we won’t
practice those songs yet.

We’ll waltz away at dawn, hungry
for strong black coffee and bread.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Bookworm.

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