Time has turned my partly fossilized essence
into a cache of small diamonds
that require placement, one at a time,
in this patch of sunlight or that.
I avoid brightly lit rooms.
I belong to the moment after sunset
and the one before dawn,
not traveling much
through the neighborhood
of high noon, though until recently
I voted in that precinct.
Roil away, o well-intended, riled-up friends,
half of you my seniors!
I belong to dreams that wake me
at this terrible hour. In them
I find an extravagant peace
which I would spend on you.
My next best offer is my absence.
January 31, 2023 [Issue 41]
Grey Sparrow Journal 