3:30 a.m. and no moon
In sight. The windows in the alley
Gape unresponsive, the stiletto-roofs
Cut into the night-gray sky.
At 3:30 a.m. the back yard
Is massive. Under the expanse
Of white, it is a stage poised for
The next act, virgin-crisp under the lights.
Is this it? This patch of moonless
Sky, this plot of frozen ground,
These paper clouds, these dreaming
People whose names I don't know --
Is this it? Where my show will
Play out? Is it, at this random hour,
Already playing out? Is it, from out
There, looking back at me,
Wondering the same things? Well,
We are at least awake here together:
It must be a good sign; it must mean
I should now learn my lines.
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