Poems for late light.

Six short pieces on quiet rooms, weather, and the small maps we keep. Choose a card, or let chance choose for you.

Before the Night

Morning light on quiet glass,
a cursor blinks, a moment pass—

The docks still shine like borrowed coins,
each rope a quiet, dripping line—

The station clock forgets to hurry;
a paper ticket warms my palm—

We folded night into a square
and set it drifting down the hall—

A teacup maps the morning light,
a key remembers every door—

The sky unbuttons, pale and new;
the leaves still hold a silver weight—