When does the day turn


How many hours of this silence does the city feel. When it is deep, dark, predawn and my eyes shift awake from
the contrast. No car sounds. No bird sounds.
Maybe we are the only ones moving, me and some shadow of a startled awake dreamer in another room, across town.

I wash my face again with oil. I slowly pull the window open more. Turn the blankets down, waiting.

Sounds, waves of story, constant and to be stilled. Fan swirl lightly ticking, night bug songs

Echoes of yesterday when it still
feels like today.


Silence like an echo of half the light or less.




Half the light or less.

Lesson from the predawn bed:

Or, how to hold a friend,

when I am gone:


The birds are singing.


Wake up with

that crust covered eyes,

know I’ve cried all night

in my sleep, or, then with

the sinking ache in my chest,

know my heart did beat all night

in my dreams.


And actually we are alive.


Just a few more hours waiting then

listen for the train when it’s leaving.

You can too. Why is loving

sometimes like that

long off song of silence. Waiting.

Send rest.

It is tomorrow now.

31poemsMegan Jones