the branches
have caught the clouds
translucent silver floss
against the night-dark sky
Mars rising above
the nearly-full moon
and yet
there is none
of the sweet contentment
that the day’s events foretold
only a deep and desperate ache
propelling the body
from over-hot sheets
into the haunting hours
that breach the living gap
between midnight and dawn
this is what they mean
by running to stand still
no matter how fervently
the dragonfly heart denies it,
the inescapable fact remains:
you can’t catch Byzantium
with empty nets
– T.H.
(up at 4am, again)
