The Wee Hours
the cigarette is finished
I can postpone no more
my wrestling with the night
pills referee my fight
tomorrow will be daylight
on fresh fallen snow
I will write
with a dead twig
on fresh fallen snow
then throw the twig
into the open back
of a departing garbage truck
that leaves tired tire tracks
on fresh fallen snow
the night’s fears
inconsequential tears
whispers from past years
weak fires routinely snuffed out
on fresh fallen snow
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