There are many things
that isn’t comforting
in the middle
of the night
unless it’s the night itself.

It feels as if lost times
were more
crucial
seconds–those outlines
of moments.

Where are they?
Dim as
darkened gray.
They’ve entered your daylight,
and hurt by what is remembered,
but the midnight light
is always there.

I peer through the skylight
and see this blue-black glow
and new starlets gathering.

Now it’s Chamomile for a dream
the perfect weight
of a coverlet,
a dogeared page
these are the cold night wishes
of warmth.