A Poem for Wednesday

The witching hour
dribbles nightmares from her maw:
toddlers’ nightmares, gleaming onyx
draped in shards of shadow,
but also
nightmares the color of
empty Saturday afternoons,
crushed by the terror
of nothing in particular.
What would it be
to see these creatures?
Not to surrender, nor yet
to charge, brandishing creeds
and anthems:
but to meet them with open sail,
a Beagle among their Galápagos,
making notes and sketches –
and later,
stories for your daughters,
and maps to guide them

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