Near dusk, we owe an appropriate fear
to the light that may not show on the hilly
back of the morning beast.
Mother takes our picture at sunset.
Her finger pushing and begging
that button to hold everything still,
appeases us. Thus the wind is captured
into an airtight frame, to be developed
at will, and it cannot slap a single freckle
out of place. It cannot take your dream-job
into a rink to beat it into disenchantment,
nor pat a cowlick down
from where it is happy to be. Day breaks,
and suddenly, we bed anxiety so that it
clings to the sheets like the imprints of
thirsty love-making. Still, nowhere is it
written that you may not long for home
and safety though the night scare is gone.
The waking hours think for us, back to
when we were soft with sleep,
unsure, but carved into the flanks of a friend.