There were nights when the stars were so plentiful

I became drunk on their glow,

staring straight up,

sky swallowing all else with ease. 

And the curve of the earth was visible,

bending to each horizon

like the graceful shape of an inverted bowl.

The lake below the canoe

could manage just pure reflection,

rippling round the oars,

dripping from my fingertips.

And somehow I touched light

old as millennia, just as far, and long extinct.

I’m singing a song I learned decades ago.

                             I only sleep during the day.

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