Soft of foot, with cold bare toes
I creep the staircase, wrapped in my robe.
When night is over,
I’ll see to it
to greet the pine needles on the deck,
smell the frost, cut
my biscuit down the middle,
finish off the Belvoir berry drink
with a swish.

The apartment is full of happy mess.
Frankincense, myrrh, sandalwood,
cookie dough and spice
float through the rooms in tendrils
that push down my eyes.
I see to it
that nothing is disturbed,
let the ribbons be kicked about,
the flutes and glasses, mugs and teacups
are allotted their group sleeps,
the candles allowed to twist and burn
with no fear of any snuffing.

When night is over
(which it is not), I’ll see to it
that things get folded, floors get swept;
but in the current darkness
things rest. The hours are not finished
yet.

I write some poems,
have some cake. Let the music play late.

When night is over I’ll see to it all.
But it is not over.
The sky is inky blue.
The birds
have yet to twitter,
above the neighbors have yet to stir
and begin the ritual stomping.
So it’s a good night.
Quiet, and pure.

Life is warm and fine for awhile.
I wonder if I am the only thing awake at 2 a.m.
besides the spiders
and dreams.