Yes, it’s only one, but it should be two:
windchimes tinkle and yard dogs croon.
warped reflection in a silver spoon
the drunks peel out of their favorite saloons.
He grins and breathes, the man named Kuhn:
he’s watching the searchlights that search for the moon.
If you sleep through this night, then kudos to you,
but you’re missing this sight, so shame on you too!
Two in the morning but really, it’s three:
there’s a feeling that all this was (not) meant to be.
The shadows themselves are skinning their knees.
The fish in the deep are swimming in threes.
The squirrels are hoarding their treasures in trees,
while the trees themselves, they sigh and they wheeze.
The squirrels are wild, and do as they please,
but the trees remain steadfast, and remind us to breathe.
It’s three in the morning, supposed to be four.
Poets wake wives with refrigerator doors.
Live, and live now, the electricity implores,
as the shadows outside still run and cavort.
The balconies and spirits, they roll and distort;
collapse on themselves and finally abort.
The waking world looms: soon must come sleep.
The crazy waves break, the electricity recedes.
Four in the morning, what difference is five?
Whispered, not shouted, come spirits’ replies.
No more are fridge doors waking up poets’ wives:
the poets are sleeping, succumbed to the wine.
The life of the dying becomes hushed by sunrise,
and will be dead by dawn, making room for new life.
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