the coyote's distant cry
completes the hour —
it is three a.m. —
the turtle has not
yet begun to climb
the hill toward
the garden —
the locomotive
chants its
chug and choo —
my mind traveling
against blurred
sunflowers
and green —
my vacant body
still —
cocooned
in a sleeping bag
zippedup
to my neck —
my lips conjugate
senseless, isolated
verbs
while my
heart
recites
Neruda —
"me gustas
cuando callas
porque estás
como auesent . . . "
the fire
has died
and the embers are
cold —
I wonder
if the robin
drinks each
drop of dew
from the tulip
petals
as the dawn breaks —
some say the veil is thin
at three a.m. —
yet my prayers
fall against
the earth
like heavy snow —
I am not
sedated
nor am I
awakened —
a deer stirs
and stretches
and nuzzles
the earth
as my eyelids
flutter —
the seconds leading
into four a.m.
are my mother's fingers
manipulating
strands
of my
hair
