1:00 AM

by Sean DeBolt

We've a warm snap this early January
and ice is melting with a rhythm
outside the window. I won't
sleep easily because of it--I want it
random, but can't get what I want--it's ice,
and weather.

I'll lie with my hand on my naked
belly, instead, listening, wishing
you were there, on my belly, insinuating
yourself upon me in a rhythm--night
and day
and night: the weather
can not change; it is what it is:
only weather.

© Sean DeBolt, 2004

Sean DeBolt is well-known in western Wales, where he's published a half dozen chapbooks through a local small press--Small Dog Publishers. He spends most of his time tending to his Toggenburgs and guinea hens, and, in his free time, writes "archly romantic poetry" and short stories that, he says, "nibble and masticate."