Somewhen
Somewhen a car roams,
the shape of my torso already
ghosting its hood;
stairs I will have fallen down
await,
a stream slips around the sometime rocks
in my pockets;
the sea breathes me.
They all speak late at night, sotto voce–
They think that I don’t hear them.
(They know that I hear them.)
(They count upon my hearing them.)
In the cone that is a too-bright light lit late,
the car hood blinks, the stairs shrug,
the stream blushes – the sea too feels sheepish–embarrassed all
by how they need me
to make them into fates–
embarrassed all of them, but not so embarrassed
as to simply let me be.
*******************
Another would-be poem for Sanaa’s prompt on Real Toads about late nights. It is difficult for me to return comments till this weekend, but will.
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