Poema

On the distant hill lights shimmer
(and the roar of thought - turns to silence.)
5 pm. (
moon already out

• turned to shadow
  ) by morning?
  I feel restless with [me] -
  by evening?
  memories press onto me like a lover,
  wash over me like rain,
  felt myself loving another,
  then felt that love turn to pain.

[our being here makes us special.]