Night spreads out the truth about Time.
It’s cold and endless;
leaves you so much nothing you don’t want the light on.
Well, maybe a candle or a small oil lamp;
enough to sip some coffee by.
But even then, not a voice.
If there could be someone else,
you’d want them to be there quietly.
Not too close, wearing old clothes.
Even then, as day reaches for a wrap,
it's just a fading Venus, a worn-out Dog,
and a half-light draped over
books, calendar, my father’s gloves ....
And we get folded into all this.
It’s either that or get unwrapped –
but not by more of the same.
No, not by dawn-blush and birdsong.
Thanks hopeful day for licking my face,
but I don’t need more wash and blur.
Because don't you get that highway feeling?
Like you’re trapped in traffic,
lifetimes wide, just grinding on?
And that the ‘it’ that isn’t going to end
never began anytime, anyplace?
Do you ever get to lose your wheels?
And just be hanging there –
like you’re a nowhere?
But when a world barrels through
the potted plans and nest of thoughts
about life and love and purpose ...
what's felt has to find its own way –
to the cleaning fire; the end of days.
Children of the sun, come in.
Come in; come in, come one, come all.