At 2Am,
the lights dim themselves in golden globes
pouring into the rooms quietly,
my pen scratches like the tiny ice
crystals on the window-
rain to snow.

Somehow,
your snoring is like the house
breathing in deep bellows
a moose in a deep valley,
crossing the stream
through the morning’s breath.

So,
I savor the moment, the time
the scratches, the fog,
sound,
taste of coffee-
grounds at the bottom
of the cup.

13 December 2008
storing away the bits
like the

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