Depression: 3 a.m.
William Stafford: “Your exact errors make a music
that nobody hears.”
Hearing the dark, I spy no
future, only the indelible smudge
By now, unheard symphonies
percolate out of wakeful sleep.
Nightly interrogations continue.
Flying too near the sun, dreams are ash
by morning. In God’s wake
I ride the slipstream, bruised by
surreptitious river rock.
Hemlock is often mistaken
for wild carrot, or Queen Ann’s Lace,
but the tongue, like the heart,
knows bitterness as a coroner knows
On a far continent,
Hope is a bronze dancer
in a white robe, spinning
under the sun.
Rachel Landrum Crumble