It’s already two a.m. You’re likely asleep.
The Milky Way’s a silver river through the night.
I’m in no hurry; I’ll not storm your dreams
with the lightning bolts of telegrams.
‘It’s not you,’ as they say. ‘It’s we.’
Love’s boat has crashed on our lives.
But we’ve already closed out our tab,
so there’s no need to list each
pain, pinprick, pang.
You watch: silence settles on the earth.
The night taxes the sky of its stars.
In such an hour one stands up and speaks
to the ages, to history, and all creation.
Artwork © Furuya Korin / Rawpixel Ltd