it comes in late, at the witching hour,
at the time reserved for drunks waking up
and losing sleep,  the road outside slower
and the light from the street lamps just enough
to slant the shadows of the shuffling
raccoons that scavenge what has not been picked
already in the busy afternoon,
it comes in strange and strong, it comes in thick
as hoarded ink that must be spent before
it's wasted, dry as a salvaged headstone
from the old yard give way to new pasture,
roses fusing, vining out ancient bones
as i--awake now--wrestle with the fear
of reckless words i hesitate to share.