We sleep late. The pine needles stick straight up.
To the west, a mountain heavy as October.
The earth has condensed beneath little balls like hailstones.
All the state liquor stores have begun to stir.
We acknowledge the darkness as it slips from our hands.
The hot sand climbing out of each trap
Lies flat as an argument against the mountains to the north.
Under the ragged pin markers is a common western darkness.
The darkness is night. A woman who leaves a hole
Before she squints to see it may never leave again.
The darkness lies down, but its eyes stay awake.
My ears greet the pine needles' and the flags' rustling.
Night doesn't go. The bubble of clear sky waits to be popped.
My nine iron and my pitching wedge belong to a world of light.
The shallowness of the Mariana's Trench has become apparent.
In this sleep we see the day, but happily we do not join it.
This inversion of Robert Bly's "Waking Up Early"
is ©2003 by Daniel Bosch