It is four in the morning.
Legions of deep sleepers cling to pillows,
their dreams the day's reverberations,
or else nothing, starless.
Some of us stir,
eyes open and seeing shapes in the blue-dark.
Memories come crawling toward us, unbidden.
They are made significant only by the hour.
Remember this.
Showing posts with label Walter Schnackenberg's The Sleepwalker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Walter Schnackenberg's The Sleepwalker. Show all posts
Thursday, October 1, 2009
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