She reads the works of other poets as she lies awake in bed,
And she wonders if this is who she is. She thinks
She may have seen a little of the truth once or twice- but
She's not sure. She will know when
It happens, or perhaps doesn't happen,
But either way, she will know.
It's after two in the morning and slowly
She closes her eyes and slips, without forewarning,
Into the future.