Why is it that the world’s on fire at 3am?
On the cusp between night and dawn,
When all the sounds on earth seem miniscule,
All the traversing that could have been bought by dreams
Had I but gone to sleep.
The bent-out-of-shape that was, then wasn’t,
The letters we wrote each other but never dared to mail.
What is it about the air at 3am?
The scent that lies in the hour when ox and tiger meet,
Minutes beleaguered, blighted by insomnia.
If I stand outside and look at the pale horizon,
I’m convinced—if briefly, that I can glimpse both past and future,
Allow me the grace that I might beseech the gods for a reprise.
But only the silence of slumber could slay my dragons.