under a spotty red November night sky
I can feel the surges of sleep or insomnia
roll against the restlessly sleeping
tossing like a cloth in a wind
or the vividly awake in listless glazing
holding a glass in a dim living room
and watching the empty air churn out
the furniture now as nothing to toasted ganglia
how perfect this late Fall night in choosing its own time
to impose sense of place and free us in a single action
like the dull-witted in the midst of a decision
staring head in the stale cryptic air toward Heaven
the air roiling gently out of touch until deteriorated
even as anger swells and futility lessen
the fine fire of the night what's left is your sky
Content (c) 2008-2015 Philip Milito.
Content (c) 2008-2015 Philip Milito.
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