Over By the Window

Sometimes late at night when the memory feels just right I slip away to the window where the moon in her afterglow patches the holes of my heart and shoals me to the light While other dreamers still in slumber taut as their femur lose themselves in restless sleep beneath the self matches of light ignite my soul and raise me to the night Like a belladonna with her purple berried hue and force I wander from the noise and clang of earth's pro-choice and enter into sanctum like a luminous bulb of white Sometimes late at night when the memory wants her say I slip away to the window to watch the star's resonant hoist blanched by the effervescence of dawn they all but go away Because they know that sometimes late at night I want to stay, over by the window where I can sit, until the break of day.