tell me the hour isn’t late,
that the all-day, all-night
diner still serves what I crave.
The sky’s cloudy, marbled, shot through
with bits of emerald: the color of expensive
granite countertops, or the supple skin
of certain fish. Pebbly in places, like
day-old bread. This might be the hour
for some old-time miracle: say,
fish and loaves; or wine and water.
Birds twisting free from fire. This time,
console me. My losses, reconstitute.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.