Four AM

and I find myself again

in the church

of the dark hours, coffee

and preternatural awareness

like a cat's eye-shine. Everything

is still,

so still and quiet, except for

steam and scent escaping

the glass carafe.  The blackness all around,

sentient, permeable--like a membrane

I could plunge my hand through

and bring back

a red rose, a handful of dirt.  Above the table,

a lamp.  Out of porous night

I have carved

this small

room of light.