2 AM: strange cars circle up and down the neighborhood and its darkened streets. A lone streetlight shines through branches of the loquat tree in the widow's front yard. Whoever's not asleep is anxious or waiting; or if not waiting, then using time to fill spaces in the unread book open on their laps. How long has it been since door hinges sighed together, since water wheels slowed their revolution? At this time of year, the clock face registers its countdown to the artificial hour. We want to ink a feathery calligraphy on sheets so moths and ants can find their way to the warmth we make between our bodies. You want to rub the achy spot below the collarbone. You want to crack an egg on the rim of a pan just to see its gold: aura of an unbroken sun cradled on a little cloud, the slow heat around it bubbling. The first thing you see when you wake, the last thing when you close your eyes.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.