One Twenty-One A.M.
       

Full moon through clerestory slats.
Pursuant mist.
The room persuades me of
the logic of inanimacy.
The mirror's mereness in the body
of so much evidence.
How is it that so much comes clear at this time?
How are you faring in the whale's belly of sleep?
My belly is alert to possibility, an ululant sea.
It's a gothic night-you know the type—
all shroud
all supernal intimations of beyond.
Anachronism crowds the house's portals.
My turn, my turn, it says.
This is a deciduous world,
full of falling offs.

Copyright © 2010 Patty Seyburn All rights reserved
from Hilarity
Western Michigan University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission