I wander downstairs in my white blousey
shirt sleeves stretched in all directions
from twisting in sleepless sheets. I sit
on the floor surrounded by silent voices
on the page as I struggle to free my wonder…
who said a line and in what verse? Rumi? Doty?
The line spoke to what it means to have a secret,
to be awake while other sleep, to be alive
while others have long died. The moon is bright
behind the blinds, dogs curl in the chairs,
the line is hidden deep. McPherson? Forché?
They’ve known things. They whisper secrets
which make bail after years in solitary. Wisdom.
Whatever that might be. When everyone wakes
I’ve done dishes. Tables dusted. Laundry
shifted. The books reshelved. And know
no more about the line now, nor myself.