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Three o’clock in the Morning


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


Here looms the ladder of our darkness.

There are things that wait, nervously inanimate,
to mimic our joy, desire not to sleep nor wake,
brought to life at three o'clock in the morning,
always three o'clock in the morning.
Who are we?  When these nights
are so much happier than their dawns!  No one

leads these rebellions.  In the sun the sourness
of lovers in their sweetness clings to confidence men,
starts fires in their taste buds.  O Lord, most holy trickster,

do not forsake us,
past these witching hours all things subdued grow brighter.
Could be an Edward Hopper painting
crossed with Dali
after eating too much cheese,

instead of a Glasgow drawn in limbo,
its dark night of the soul
cafés,
haunted house menageries, rain redeemed dead-ends.

We have shaved our eyebrows.  WE do not acknowledge US.
We do not have to.


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