offers such astonishing

emptiness, unsaid syllables

laced among pillows or trees?


Morning is too bright.

Sunshine brings the iridescence

of the dragonfly, breakfast motes,

a table set in yellow,

newspapers, practical things.


Noon exacerbates

the clarity of light, the fullness

of daylilies, their red tongues lolling

among green fronds.

Night, on the other hand,

hides everything

in its claustrophobic cloak.


It’s dusk that tenders

the bobbing boat of consciousness,

pale against a darkening pier,

holds a heart without communion,

a mind gone astray.


Only twilight keeps

the distillation of past lives. Fireflies

blink. Children are called in for bed.

Life remains untidy

as a pile of dusty books,

strewn laundry. 


Pick a blue blossom

from an invisible tree

while moon, owl and star

lose transparency, become palpable

in the barely lingering light.