All Too Real

. . . the nocturnal reach.
We’re soothed by the greying of the world
at dusk. And starry fingers
curl into slumber.

A recurring dream:
People will not look at me, catch my eye.
No matter where I go, how insistent I behave,
their gazes wither in my wake
as if shamefulness we’re more alive
than I . . .

The early hours dash out light
in hopeful flecks. How sudden I awaken
and cascade into the unpainted
moment. All the dollops of emotion:
mine to choose.


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