A wet wind fills the treetops
and sings itself to sleep.
For a time, spent blossoms of spring,
untidy personages in white and pink,
lay drowning on the sidewalk while
no one in particular roams the streets
looking for the unfamiliar.
It’s too late for twilight’s sureness,
and too early for dawn’s regret -
this cosmos of sleep-toned forgetfulness
absorbs.
Yes, a quietude
beyond lament
beyond selfhood
beyond awakening
spreads like blossoms in patternless dreams
along inward corridors.
It is a no-time, this in-between
surrounding an inner monologue of night.
Taking time to look thru the world.
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