Dispatch #40

The Turn

 The Turn

Awake in the pre-dawn dark
at the end of a difficult year,

I gather scraps from a notebook
to contain grief
in private speech.

The words repeat like a rosary: 

sun, silence, time,
light, day, pain. 

As if ink could snare a voice 
beyond me—for company—

and dissolve the “I”
in an image
at once blurred and vivid.

That was the vow and the dream.

Morning, bright now 
between the margins—

cloud, window, 
sparrow, rain—

at the end of a difficult year.