It is the small hours
in this suburban plantation.
The lighted windows are few.
I walk past them all.
I have a ritual
in finding a solemn quiet
by climbing the jagged iron fence
to float outstretched in the blue community pool.
Lit from below,
a natural bouyancy carries me
in a splayed constellation to the night above,
the fog lifts around me from the wind-swept water.
The brass-buttoned sentinel
is lurking somewhere on his hourly wage.
He passes through this night sipping boredom
His footsteps drag and his flashlight
Deliberately oblivious, I reach my peace
flooded to my ears, blinded and deaf,
lips and nose above the quivering line
drinking the night sky