Now
Nov 18, 2020
a poem
The promise of permanence
is a trick
like the winter darkness at 6:06 a.m.
when the dog wakes me up
because she thinks it’s daylight
I stumble away from my bed
eyeing the oven clock,
sure it’s going to be the
middle of the night;
but every day since the clocks changed
she’s been right:
it’s 6 a.m. and the darkness
begins to break open
yellow and new
as I plod downstairs in
northern boots.
If you don’t need to know
what happens next
or believe that anything lasts,
you will heal each morning
you swore was night
