That Which Takes the Dark


4 a.m., and sleep seemed a thing impossible.

The mottled face of the ceiling was like that of the moon,
pale and barren, and offering nothing.

His eyes moved to the orange strip of street-lamp glow
cast across the bedroom wall by the window.

He watched the steam from the sewer drains
wash and dance
like ripples across a mud puddle,
before once again glancing at the hands
of the Big Ben clock at his bed-side.

Sleep wasn’t coming.

It had made its appearance brief, and seemingly
had moved on, leaving him to yearn.

Now, he did yearn,
but attempted to stop, for he knew
such an act would yield nothing.


Today, the Sun is Mine

299f064848992fe598f9b5de1f3e91b7This heat, this glow, it blasts through the glass
upon my skin, and for a moment
I’m enriched by it
the way a plant would, but soon
I realize the sun only exists
because I willed it to
and so
the heat and the light is mine
and I am to blame for it
and all the cancer it has caused
and this morning
I’ve energized myself, and all is right
and it’s good
and all the cancer, and drought, and sunburn
it’s all my fault
and I feel absolutely fine with that.