Mitternacht heißt diese Stunde;
Sie rufen uns mit hellem Mund
from Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme
by J.S. Bach
That familiar Friday night
dark, both inside and out,
and five of us scattered in silence
at the end of each sentence
like periods in a paragraph.
Smelling of shit and sweat, a laugh
breaks through the snoring of a sixth
not far behind me, and a body
adjusting itself to the forgiveness
of a creaking wooden bench
falls back to snoring after the creaking
ends. So it can’t be a bad dream,
and the candlelight illuminating
our presence is, in fact, just enough
to suggest forgiveness. I want to sleep
too, too tired to laugh.
Recent Comments