at 1.35am

the evening
is a gift
or
a puzzle
we try to figure out
by tickling the cat
writing love letters
to the sun
the morning
has gone stale
in a beer can
the cat
sleeps on the bed
no concern for
the living room
curtains
all the light
will have gone
by december
only the generators
have enough
to keep
till midsummer
it is nearly
autumn
i bathe in
falling leaves
marking each one
with
a stitch
the surface
is too brittle
a thread
crumples
with the needle
half-way
i draw
in the air instead
hoping the light
catches my fingers
like a sparkler
traces your name
indelibly

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