a night kitchen

[in which the poet has coffee.]

Nothing around me definitive enough to write down —

Not even the cars for once human enough to write about.

Yes, a horse and cart could have brought me here to sit, and at least I would have the horse for conversation.

I could tell it to say “Grass” as it munched between the beds of bushes and very sturdy marigolds.

It would have nothing to say about the fact of what it ate, but the twitch of an ear — that would be enough.

Miles make it sing
like you knew you want it to ring.

Woke up at 5:00 with this in my head. No, I don’t know what it means either.

Just before midnight
The whoosh of the house around me
not remembering when the crickets became so loud