Late Hours

January 03 2006



On summer nights the world


Moves within earshot


On the interstate with its swish


And growl, an occasional siren


That sends chills through us.


Sometimes, on clear nights, still nights,


Voices float into our bedroom,


Lunar and fragmented,


As if the sky had let them go


Long before our birth.



In winter we close the windows


And read Chekhov,


Nearly weeping for his world.



What luxury, to be so happy


That we can grieve


over imaginary lives.