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Another Day, Another Alba
May, and four A. M. I wake, nothing near enough to touch in the daylight-saving dark except the clock. Out of reach is most wanted: cigarettes, soft wish of words, a patch of greener grass. Minarets are not feeling up my sky with your prayers. Ah, love, let's face it: it's morning and I, no loving-tongued romantic, might invent a sleepless eye wild with longing for the sight of the world's last nightingale drowning in his bubbling throat, or say over Mandalay comes up sullen, silent dawn where no flying fishes play, more beautifully. Senlin, old birdsong singer, that roar 's northbound traffic coming on: Semis and Diesels, all four lanes ninety-nine-ing to meet in Seattle at six, where, under cloverleafs of slate, they'll pair off and copulate.