Night

It used to be that only the daylight hours
were numbered. Time’s heart started
beating at sunrise and slept
with the rest of us. And even though
I’m writing this in the middle
of the night, 2:14 in fact, I wish
we still had a long open night
without moments, without names.
The moon would move over you
with it’s wild squinting eye
worrying about what you might
be doing out when it was busy
spraying it’s phermones out
onto the grass while the Earth
wasn’t looking. That’s the long
hour of creation where the myths
are written with timeless lunacy.