Can it be the same, left over from the night,
when birds sing happily in the room
and the pipeline of the surf turns spume
into diamonds which together light

on the bay in necklaces, and all the bliss
of youth surges with the same carefree
thrill of promise, hope, and certainty
that the day will stay exactly as it is,

while the darkness brings a doubt,
an ungodly rush, a growing splay
and churn of forces hidden to the day,
mermaids drowning in a water spout

for the loss of passion, land, and touch,
maybe not the fireworks of sight,
but which matter just as much
as brightness in the deep of night.

January 12th, 2018, 8:47–9:31 A.M.