It’s one eleven,
and the night is a newborn without a name.
My thoughts have a clarity,
a purity,
an emptiness,
that is too fragile for daylight.
I am Zen,
I am centered;
[a little left of center, now]
I am scattered across the dusty facets of my life
like renegade marbles from a child’s palm,
so that I can see every moment like one might
see a city from a parachute.
There is something beautiful about being awake
while the world sleeps,
like I’ve just come through a tunnel from China.
[Which reminds me of the Buddhist symbol
tattooed on your left wrist.]
Like an animal from its cage,
I hang around and chase my tail—
I don’t know what to make of this freedom.
Cartwheels in the halls?
Salsa in the kitchen?
Tiptoe to the bathroom,
coax an ocean from the taps?
Float on a pillowcase, make myself small,
slide under the door to kiss you in your sleep,
and d i s a p p e a r
like the echo of a priest bouncing off sleepy Sunday sighs,
only there to rub from your eyes
when the morning comes,
as the night curls up and dies?