Chasing the tail of a day
that never quite ends
nor therefore begins,
plunging wide-eyed into fire;
burning crimson peaks of gold
that never quite sink
into coal-blackened night.
Tired to the marrow of our bones,
we party on, our restless bond
forged from the winter grey
of streets that weighed us down
with compromise and brittle truce,
the scrape and claw of nails on slate;
then a day we had seized rose
from the mud and took us on its torrid wing.
Now we circle the earth
at one thousand miles an hour,
forever reaching westward
lest the day slip from our palm.
Below, dusk quickens and stirs
a constellation of cities and dreams;
but here where the air is thin
sleep is but a memory, and dreams
but the noise and pulse of the solar day.
Fixers we are, strung out on nothing
but what lies between,
time without motion,
we are above the fray; yet still,
when sleep coils its chains
once again we shall fall
and the day, as it must,