For the toss-and-turns of a
warm night
she did not sleep
the red-eyed tree.
warm night
she did not sleep
the red-eyed tree.
Not delivered
the bleach-white cooling sheets
from dusk to midnight
from midnight to...
What is this?
An itch of a dawn
at her feet
yearning
peeking
yellowish green
Is this eternity then?
With her eyes wide open.
Is this undulation
a matter of fashion?
Or is she forever condemned
without resolution?
She thought about Antarctica
about icebergs
eternal nights
the object of fantasy
then repaid
with eternal sobriety
As she looks on
she contemplates
the river of puzzled gaze
Is this sympathy then?
Of the red-eyed riders
Engulfed by presumed destiny.
- 2/20/2023, recapitulating thoughts driving into Asheville, NC
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