Another twelve hours through.

Open eyes to daylight shines,

yet only moonlight pines

to midnight’s dawning.


Through yonder window breaks,

wrote the poet

where heart and pen would sing,

but this open window blows only wind,

the Wind of You and I,

sailing hurricane into the west

to sing no more.


Insomnia, they say,

breeds strange dreams

immaculately rendered.

They don’t tell it to the man

getting his degree in cardboard architecture—

reality never seeks another’s pleasure.


But the wind always knows.

The circuit of character

as a race, renders whistling whispers

of the boy’s shaking grips

upon the sill.

They comment on the breeze

without ever looking up.


Time is the factor

where it all starts slip-slipping

you and me and mystery makes three,

the boy upon the windowsill

staring at the clock-lit silhouettes,

making ghosts of men.