It doesn’t matter
what kind of day
I’ve had— I always
have a hard time falling
asleep. In the trees,
in the dark, I hear
the elongated molecules of owl
calls, the signature elegies
of frogs at the river’s edge.
I try to still the hovering shapes
of thoughts that want to graze
on the meadow after I’ve pulled close
the paddock gate. I was taught
to believe that even the longest
devotions find their reason,
if not their reward. The clock
with no face flashes amber
numbers on the ceiling— mirror
surface to my own, lying here,
listening to my own inner pulsing.
In response to Via Negativa: Happy Hour.