It's Wednesday, two in the morning:
instant coffee and an English muffin.
Chilly in the kitchen. Forty degrees
and a cold black rain outside.
to the four walls of my apartment. I complain:
There is beauty that I cannot dance with.
There are songs to which I don't know
and will never learn the words, poems
which my voice is too dusty to render.
I wish I were young. I wish I could sleep
eight hours each night. I wish I lived in
Montana. I want to visit holy ground.