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Poem	It is later than late, the simmered down darkness of the jukebox hour. The hour of drunkenness and cigarettes. The fools hour. In my dreams, I still smoke, cigarette after cigarette. It's okay, I'm dreaming. In dreams, smoking can't kill me. It's warm outside. I have every window open. There's no such thing as danger, only the dangerous face of beauty. I am hanging at my window like a houseplant. I am smoking a cigarette. I am having a drink. The pale, blue moon is shining. The savage stars appear. Every fool that passes by smiles up at me. I drip ashes on them. There is music playing from somewhere. A thready, salt-sweet tune I don't know any of the words to. There's a gentle breeze making hopscotch with my hair. This is the wet blanket air of midnight. This is the incremental hour. This is the plastic placemat of time between reality and make-believe. This is tabletop dream time. This is that faint stain on your mattress, the one you'll discover come morning, and wonder how. This is the monumental moment. The essential: look at me now. This is the hour. Isn't it lovely? Wake up the stars! Isn't it fabulous? Kiss the moon! Where is the clock? The one that always runs ahead. The one that always tries to crush me with its future. Originally published in Literati Magazine, Winter 2005. Copyright © Lisa Zaran 2005
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