The Apology

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.

S O?


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