. . . 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.