It doesn’t matter
what kind of day

I’ve had— I always
have a hard time falling

asleep. In the trees,
in the dark, I hear

the elongated molecules of owl
calls, the signature elegies

of frogs at the river’s edge.
I try to still the hovering shapes

of thoughts that want to graze
on the meadow after I’ve pulled close

the paddock gate. I was taught
to believe that even the longest

devotions find their reason,
if not their reward. The clock

with no face flashes amber
numbers on the ceiling— mirror

surface to my own, lying here,
listening to my own inner pulsing.


In response to Via Negativa: Happy Hour.

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