Hangover

Lately only waiting intrudes.
The fierce wilderness is made docile
by the touch of tender fingers
whose friend/foe status is rather unclear.
I hold dear these vacancies of thought and action,
though I don’t understand why.
Nor the whispers drifting down
from the wakening sky:
Just what exactly are you trying to say?
What secrets will I be selected to uphold?
Teardrops of light trickle
from window to floor with unexpected grace.
The expression on my face
feels less than promising.

-r. miller

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