At four a.m. it's the blood that hums first,
heart slamming in my ears, fingertips numb
under heaped quilts – I throw the covers off,
feet taking over, pacing it out, small strides
from bed to door to water glass,
as my ankles crack dull on the rugs,
the air here won't move, I forget breeze,
the sheen of street light seems fixed.
My bones know the drag. It is all
so much work. At the window,
I see light beaming behind hills.
My clenched fingers answer, unfurl.
Causes Amy MacLennan Supports
Chautauqua Poets & Writers
Oregon Poetry Association