Weeping in the Dark Hours

Moonlit heart, chapped lips. We make coffee at home to take with us, being that couple, and this our way of coupling with the world. There are many chalices. Cardinals on the fence between the neighbors, knowing them by song. Rosaries hanging on bedposts, something else Dad and I have in common. How touching after becomes the sine qua non of love, how the late age holds us knowingly. The neighbor's haircut up close. I don't know, what do you write about? A studied absence of references to Islam, despite the emphasis on "Abrahamic monotheism." And the sky at certain hours of the day, and the smell of the air at dawn on a day when snow is coming, and how it felt once upon a time to wait on the mail. One grows tired of their anger and impatience and falls weeping in the dark hours, exhausted with the burden of selfhood. Familiar art, familiar joy. Almost always a river would help and does.