Which Is Where We Are Now

Alone at night,
past the nadir,
after the blood–boiling hour,
when through tripping through the webs of the world,
I wonder why I’m up.
Then, as if nudged from dreaming,
it occurs to me:
the lilt of the nightingale
gently reaches me;
that living sparkling
in the dead of dark
chirping the light–hearted pronouncement of its being —
safe to speak