A Sleepless Night

April, and the last of the plum blossoms


scatters on the black grass

before dawn. The sycamore, the lime,

the struck pine inhale

the first pale hints of sky.

An iron day,

I think, yet it will come

dazzling, the light

rise from the belly of leaves and pour

burning from the cups

of poppies.

The mockingbird squawks

from his perch, fidgets,

and settles back. The snail, awake

for good, trembles from his shell

and sets sail for China. My hand dances

in the memory of a million vanished stars.



A man has every place to lay his head.