The Nightly Traveler

The Larkspur Horne

Atop that misty bed, a fog that is a tress hanging on the thickish night
I rest, but know no dreams, for my head is a wild animal
that roams the kingdoms, having left
my shoulders, it prowls the roads, and opens doors and enters
abodes, homes it should not be in – but
it loves to watch
the falling chests of strangers sleeping, the moving
of clock hands in empty chambers, the rustle
and creaks, that commence unbeknownst; so my creature
imagines, traveling across the world. Night markets
of Morocco, the Dim Sum restaurants of Hong Kong, the moors
of Yorkshire, Louisiana Mississippi in the early morn, the Atacama,
it wanders, far too wakeful and alive for 2 a.m.
Far too full and fumbly and foolish
to be carrying cups of water, writing papers, making music
on a ukulele with a bum string; however, I do linger
over my…

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