by Janann Dawkins

It is late and I haven’t yet stopped:  of the shifts
unregarded by most, it’s the graveyard. The swift

of the morning, the early-to-rise, undertake all the rest
and relieve them of work. By the time I have dressed

in my uniform, nothing is left but the scraps that might drift
in one's way. Such is life:  I collect all the grift

that remains. Nothing much. But the dust in the breast
needs to pump that much worse when the moon finds a nest

in the quarter past four in the morning. The thrift
of the hour instills a distemper and lifts

me from stalking the sky. My crook thumb knows its quest
but forgets its own power. The winds join me west.


Originally published in the Taj Mahal Review (Issue #14, December 2008). Janann Dawkins’ chapbook Micropleasure at Leadfoot Press:
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