It is forty-four minutes past midnight
and I am sitting.
I do not hear the sound of breathing
the sleepers upstairs are certainly making.
I do not see the sun burning like jealousy somewhere far off.
I do not feel the warmth of the pierced hand that keeps me.
I cannot taste the goodness of God,
the bread of last breakfast,
the lips of my sleeping beloved,
Not even death’s rancid emergency.
Silence like a glass of cold water
and me, afraid that my wanting will spill it—