The summer solstice has ended.
The sun has tucked away under her blanket
and she sleeps in way too long, lolling behind the clouds
leisurely, tossing, stretching, yawning, leaving me
with more navy hours than I know what to
do with. When I was a child, I’d close my eyes
and pretend to be blind. Look Mommy,
I can’t see! Until I’d open my eyes
and be accosted by hues of green and blue
and wonder. Darkness has made singers
out of mourners and poets out of drunk men.
But owls? The owls are lucky. Nocturnality doesn’t
bother them. They know there’s mice
to prey on and mates to court. The koala bears,
they’re even more propitious. Eighteen hours
of unhindered sleep, imagine that! If you ever
come across my door, in the wee hours
of the morning, missing from its hinges, don’t bother
coming in. If it’s gone, probably I am too. You might
or might not find me on the terrace,
lying supine on rectangular wood,
moonlight streaked across my face
and the wind cradling me to sleep
as I whisper I am sorry,
I am so so sorry over and over and over
until it disintegrates.
S O R R Y.
S O R R.
S O R.