The computer with all its temptations must go off soon so that I might start winding down. The night must be visited one last time so that I can savor its quiet and bring it into my thoughts, even while remembering how this afternoon the butterflies fluttered bright light about, to my ears soundlessly. Perhaps the memory has hypnotic power. Sleep, sleep, it will say, and I will sleep. But, just in case my brain won't follow the command, I have beer to act as a soporific. Having a backup plan is a good idea. But maybe the quiet thoughts alone will work. I certainly hope they do.
Sunday Verse
Save as Draft
by Joel M. Toledo
Or write as poem. The whole point is often
what we miss out on. To revise is to reconsider
the experience of, say, a leaf — never mind
that it is not green anymore. Or, pardon the sudden
evening. The transition was nice enough;
the explosive colors of dusk. And, didn't you feel
so much sadness? I cannot explain it any better
than how I could when the outlines were still there:
trees and some wonderful new shapes.
Since then, things have changed. A pale hand
moves in the darkness. And someone is calling out,
come to bed, come to bed. And it is just you.
The evening insists on evening. It is that simple.
It is late enough as it is.
