I lift up my eyes. The sky
is layered with pinks and reds,
an octave of shades, like drawn
blood set aside in a glass tube.
Elsewhere maybe, but what
harm could befall one here?
The sun can’t strike except
through interceding leaves.
The moon stands guard
as all night I lie sleepless,
counting the hourly bells,
thinking don’t think that.
Its dry light across the bed,
the floor, the mirror tipped
to look away. In the morning
black ants on their usual paths,
going out and coming in,
the way level before them.
Jennifer Atkinson is the author of six collections of poetry, most recently A Gray Realm the Ocean (Fordham).
Photo by Kym MacKinnon on Unsplash
