3 a.m.

the iPod plays

monks chanting in Latin

and I think how appropriate.

I drift in and out

of sleep until 4 a.m.

then drag myself out of bed.

I pour myself the green tea

made the night before

so I can think

while the world



I light a candle

and the thick sweet

smell of caramel

and bourbon-vanilla

burns beside my

simple writing sanctuary,

a couch where

I word by word

forge meaning

from memories

and see realities

kept invisible

until these endless days

spent wrestling in their

pain and perfume.


I struggle

to bend words

so that there’s

something like

monks chanting

a candle burning

or the infinite spaces

of quiet and redemption

shimmering effortlessly

at 4 a.m.


But words are like

insecure lovers.

No matter how much you give

they demand more

and their meanings

run away

at the moment you

believe them

finally true.

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