What the Night is All About

 

In your floating yellow predawn dream,

your bed is evanescing into ghostly splotch
and something pastel green appears
to want to watch.  Another crack of late

night morning – one to two – breaks open

to uproot you – as if consciousness in sleep
were mostly proving more unwieldy than was
good for mental health. There must be wealth

in wanting to be wakened. Something’s

shakened, but it isn’t telling. Something
irrepressible: a fresh upwelling takes another
form and there you are again, still warm from

having been accosted, lost in almost pleasurable

doubt which, like a melon smashing, wakes up
into wet and ragged pieces – manifestly you –
wondering what the night is all about.









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