collides with today
as the 60 watt lamp
at my beside
taints my darkened walls with
plastic light.
The books lie open, half-read…
prod my wonderings.
Are these 60 watts
counting down with me,
‘til I can again sense the dawn?
No.
They can only hope
that I refuse the moon’s seductions,
keep the favonian breeze
from loosing my hold
on tomorrow,
from cooling my hot heart running
in disgust.
Welcome to the 12 o’ clock.
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