in blankets and bad dreaming
I plod through the night
without the usual joy
I find in the darkness
of God's time.
Dreary and stealing from the day
like a kleptomaniac
who can't get enough of taking
anything that freezes the fear
into so much alone.
The lack of desire
is as much neuropathy of the heart,
so much misfired love
in the wrong direction,
as it is a body turning off the lights
and going to bed without a glance
at the possibility
of warmth.
I hum a little lullaby to myself
and to all the angels who know me
from my clear and certain voice.
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