Four O'clock Sunrise

Four O’clock Sunrise

it’s another room – it’s not a room at all

and sunrise doesn’t come at four o’clock.

solstice moonlight came and is enough to show

pale pigmentation on the walls, blips of white

sound crowning in the lowly black waveform

where duct tape tore the red paint from the plaster –

solstice moonlight came and is enough to show

the opposite, too – where quotes from Proust

and Baghavad Gita delve further into darkness

like permanent marker spiders on the ceiling –

maybe you can see the glue marks from the stars

that crashed to your Milky Way bedspread on hot mornings –

maybe the solstice moon’s not a moon at all

you draw the curtains in a spasm of unreal pain

to find, behind curtains drawn and low enough to touch

a glow which, if photographed, could be titled