The Eleventh Hour

1 All week’s been waning and waxing,
2 gibbous and crescent
3 hidden to the naked eye until late.
4 Even then, without clear reflection, 
5 the night’s claustrophobic white sheets 
6 at the end of a line.
7
8 Tomorrow, tonight’s not meant to mean a thing
9 if a wounded woman calls
10 at the top of the stairs, unrecognized; 
11 from a thick-aired bedroom,
12 a clouded response’s a silent act, 
13 like visions of the night, an indictment of wrongdoing.
14
15 At the eleventh hour, time’s unstill.
16 Yesterday hides as today stares into space, 
17 and here lying still in the bedroom
18 that bleached-white rock peers back
19 through tempered pane creating new meaning 
20 now recognized in proximity’s moonlight.

2.7.18