in the small hours, fingers interlocked
behind my head, I search the hidden ceiling
straining to see any star beyond, even
on cloudy nights, the moon glow must
surely be lighting those linings they say are
silver, such is lore optimism, a blind treasure
hunt of blank heaven without a map,
an exercise in strained imagination,
tiring empty with the regret that comes
after midnight and far before dawn, the kind
of unfulfillment never found under a bright noon sun
sitting directly overhead, casting no shadows of doubt,
everything so easy to read, when you have no fear
of the mossy close showing only the blackness of darkness
Lanning Lee 