at four thirty in the morning
the world is a vapid tumescence
that covers everything
and breathes through your pores
that pulsates in the heaped garbage
on the deserted streets outside
and the creeping branches
that stroke the air
that sees through your eyes
and whispers through your windows
on the wind
whispering
"don't come too close
scavenger
ape
don't burden me
with your weight
don't give me that unearthly glare
this is my time
go back
walk slowly
back from the window
wait for narcotic light
wait for the dream
of day
don't come to me
do not dare"
and what a chill, what a fright
to feel that there is something
that knows you, that sees you
when there is nothing there
when there is no hand to stroke your hair
nor faces and hearts to soothe or care
just dead dark silent things
staring at you below
like a snare
to sleep
perchance to scream
"speak to me!
speak!
where is the promise?
where the hope
and the deliverance?
where is your bosom?
where is your skin
and where can I run my fingers
through your soft glowing young hair?
four thirty in the morning
darkened windows
ghostly hollows
empty stare
they do not care
