The four AM departure from dreams invites the cold swirlOf ceiling fan wind to tangle with the world outsideThe half-open window, where a motorcycle zoomsAt full speed along the soft, low-hummingOf constant traffic like a lost river's flow And I get to thinking, how even in such dark hours as theseHow one can make reflections, like ponds often doWhen trying to remember the shape of every cloudBefore they float away; I get to thinkingOf trifles, fights to come, warning signs Of little droplets and their ripple effects; wind, hailstorms,Throw in an earthquake while we're at it—whatDon't beer binges instigate? Ignite the woodsNear mountaintop borders for squeezingFinal coughs to glimpse the end at last. There could be another solution; that's what closed eyesForetell; there could be new lovers formed, moldedOut of friends, though it's better to forget; thereCould be house invasions and house arrests;Stolen plums and blackmail tablets; The four AM departure from dreams invites the cold swirlOf circulating air caught in newly bought bedding;The guilt of having spent any money alwaysRecurring like outside sirens and desperateWishes made during drunken dreams.
