An intruder squats

on a dream—

luring in the dreamworld

with a sound

softer than sirens,

more resounding 

than whispers

A night rider perches

on nerves—

snapping like twigs,

chirping like a backyard bird,

until the sun goes down

The chirping gets louder,

as dark blankets light

they diminish softly,

then pick back up

with the crescendoing 

of a nocturnal chorus

of insects,

of barking dogs

to the rhythm

of a metronome 

made of moonlight

The sun has vanished,

time for rest

to find some rest,

to stay restless,

to rest on time,

the kind on which 

the restless relies.

Time 

is nourishing

is as comforting as a pillow,

cushioning the body,

an incubator for nerves,

an amenity we attach to,

a comfort we cope with,

as familiar feeling 

as the birds chirping

at night

Time lives here,

in our bodies cushioned so,

for as long as we can lay there,

moving hauntingly slow

the birds don’t stop chirping,

the dogs don’t stop barking,

the insect choruses

never cease

Time moves slow

for the night creatures,

existing on need.