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
sleeps.
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.