When you sit out at the witching hour,
You can see so much less than God.
Which isn’t to say that your time is wasted,
But rather utilized according to your stature:
You can listen to the sirens scream,
Of troubles far and alien,
Interrupted by the familiar hum of your A/C unit.
Take a walk under the stars and you’ll find,
A world waiting to be heard
Like the lost possum scurrying across a neighbor’s fence,
Oblivious to your scowl,
Obstinate and ugly and composed
Stay awake long enough, though:
To hear the simple song of dawn,
With her piercing quiet
Post-Neology 