I know the face of 3am.
It pulls tight at the bones of my rest,
unwrapping the scaffolding of my cellophane sleep,
breaking into my room; my eyes open into
a dark sea of nothing.
3am is a black star absent of an orbit,
a horizon fused into the soup of blackness,
absent of shadows or breathing.
I hear the scampering of mice within the wall,
rushing within its confines of night, stopping and then
running again, fading into the apartment below.
I am suspended between worlds, yet I
feel as though I am falling flat to earth like a particle
from the dust pan of a solar wind……
3am owns me.
Roger Singer 