Night Poets

You step out at 2:30am,
the moths banging against
a bare florescent bulb,
do as she taught and listen hard
busy crickets, distant bass or thunder–
wondering what poem
woke you, or poet
who lived and died here
though you insist
the journey is your home.

She’s everywhere,
her long brown hair a broom
sweeping a quiet sky,
her voice a night bird
just now gone silent,
her body a slim birch
leaning into the spaces between.

A second bird calls
and the two continue
their old conversation,
blowing smoke rings of song
around the strange hours.
The hostas’ shy wave
dispels the illusion of stillness,
and you step back in,
your poem an offering on the altar
of the kitchen counter,
ripped from the notebook spine.

For Deborah

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