Another Friday Night

The book is on the chair,
staring backward into an era of toil.
In time, I’ll till the soil

in which I’ll plant the seeds
of a need most disastrous,
lustrous twilight twining the clouds

with threads of purple.
Dead silence or dead listeners?
Glistening phantoms fidgeting

like radio waves.
Night saves me from suffering
at the hands of my muse.

-r. miller

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