Lost at 2:00 AM

by T.M. Wright

The woman I love says I’m lost and I want to tell her
Oh, honey, you’re right, especially now—it’s so late
even the crickets are packing it in.

She could be sleeping, she could be awake, stumbling,
the same as I, over mere words, getting it right
for a fanatic few, or trying. You know,

I want to hear the woods beyond my dark windows
crackling with energy. I want to hear the deer
whooping it up, rattlesnakes hissing Rigoletto,

coyotes playing a loud game of cards—
even though it’s dark, it could happen, even though
it’s late, it could happen: it wouldn’t be a lost world, my

lost world, past 2:00, losing my sight, my stamina, barely
able to get the pillows fluffed, barely able to know what she
meant—but I know, anyway, oh honey, I know

you’re right, I depend on that. I know the dark woods
won’t crackle with energy, the crickets will sleep, and so
will I—it’s just getting down to it
that’s so damned difficult.

Reprinted from “The Devil’s Wine,” edited by Tom Piccirilli, Cemetery Dance, 2004