those hours

it’s the chill hours
those darkness ones
when the bed hasn’t been enough
and footsteps have led
to the place on the porch
where the stars are an expression
as brittle as feeling

those hours
when a curl of smoke unravels
while the goose-bumps rise
into encroachment by a shiver
from the surrounding silence

no-one should ask questions
in those hours
no good can come of it
and the answers won’t stay till it’s light

don’t ask
go back to bed
sleep if you can
this is not the hour for that
just don’t ask

© Frank Prem, 2003

4 thoughts on “those hours

  1. wow,
    I love your poetry.

    I’ll admit that I have had to re-read your pieces a few times before I feel like I might be close to understanding them (through no fault of yours)

    Your writing is beautiful and I’m hoping to learning from following your work!


    Liked by 1 person

  2. haha, I read it twice myself. 😉 Although on the surface this conjures a physical space — the porch, the stars, a curl of smoke — it reminds me of night watches while sailing an ocean. Cold and dark, somehow separated from the daylight life, when one’s solitary thoughts can run amok.

    Liked by 1 person

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