Various and Sundry Poetry


even when it is so late
i forget to make the list
pointing my way through tomorrow,
and spell badly the simplest words,
and burn my tongue on tea

even when it is so late
i am a shell of myself
peering from wide, red eyes
into the thrumming ether of midnight

even when it is so late
it is useless to keep time
silly to eat or drink anymore
and phone calls are out the question

even when it is this late
it is never too late
to put it all down
the lists
the words
the bloodshot midnights
and listen, patient as a mountain,
as she sleeps.

each breath is unceremonious
as the next, but still
my heart sprints regardless.

i realize it is not her surrender
i'm so grateful for.

it's mine.