Winter Nocturno

WINTER NOCTURNO

3:30 a.m. and no moon

In sight. The windows in the alley

Gape unresponsive, the stiletto-roofs

Cut into the night-gray sky.

At 3:30 a.m. the back yard

Is massive. Under the expanse

Of white, it is a stage poised for

The next act, virgin-crisp under the lights.

Is this it? This patch of moonless

Sky, this plot of frozen ground,

These paper clouds, these dreaming

People whose names I don't know --

Is this it? Where my show will

Play out? Is it, at this random hour,

Already playing out? Is it, from out

There, looking back at me,

Wondering the same things? Well,

We are at least awake here together:

It must be a good sign; it must mean
I should now learn my lines.