Near dusk, we owe an appropriate fear

to the light that may not show on the hilly

back of the morning beast.

Mother takes our picture at sunset.

Her finger pushing and begging

that button to hold everything still,

appeases us. Thus the wind is captured

into an airtight frame, to be developed

at will, and it cannot slap a single freckle

out of place. It cannot take your dream-job

into a rink to beat it into disenchantment,

nor pat a cowlick down

from where it is happy to be. Day breaks,

and suddenly, we bed anxiety so that it

clings to the sheets like the imprints of

thirsty love-making. Still, nowhere is it

written that you may not long for home

and safety though the night scare is gone.

The waking hours think for us, back to

when we were soft with sleep,

unsure, but carved into the flanks of a friend.