Poetry, Vol. 2.1, March 2008
After a hard night
you follow the attendant down the street-dark hall
to the table where I’m lying.
He takes a sharp breath
like a knife into his nostril and lifts
the sheet. You see
the light of an all-night café
in Durango, Colorado, in Christmas week,
that electric light in the deep snow
pre-dawn glow. Dozens of hours
later you’ll rest, a heron exhausted
by the flag’s crack and rigging’s moan,
asleep, wing up in the sand.