The poem

I read a poem.
It was so true.
I will read it again.
And again.
And again.
Fill my mind with its words.
Fill my day.
Each letter riding on my breath.
Reminding me of truth,
as I pour myself a glass of water
or
open my mail.

A comment to this from Sara

Here is the poem.

Late Hours

by Lisel Mueller

On summer nights the world moves within earshot on the interstate with its swish and growl, an occasional siren that sends chills through us. Sometimes, on clear, still nights, voices float into our bedroom, lunar and fragmented, as if the sky had let them go long before our birth.

In winter we close the windows and read Chekhov, nearly weeping for his world.

What luxury, to be so happy that we can grieve over imaginary lives.

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