Cold rain clatters on the tin roof
A thousand typewriters chanting a litany
fingernails hammering, hail tumbling.
Sorrow and tears are warmer than this
your arms promise comfort
the gutters spew careless ice.
the shrike impales insects
on the thorns of regret
the caterpillars of doubt
seal my eyes with silk
make them pregnant with wings
the black footed slug eats the moss
from the steps of forgetting
the scars that remain
are the traces of you.
a hundred paths cross this mountain
a hundred choices to make
following the soft-pawed porcupine
my wings beat against the wind.
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“2am” is an arresting title for a poem, alerting us to a rarified mood but not – or not yet – telling us why. And your opening line draws us along wanting to know more. I like this.
Thank you John!