Those who wake in the middle
Of the night read a different book.
For one thing, the world’s all dark
Around them, as if it disappeared.
The poems they read are anxious,
As if they feared the world
Might not return next morning
Or if it did might bring them
Sorrow or bad news. More sorrow.
More bad news.
A little light.
On the book’s white pages
While they read for an hour:
Pages lit up like a sail at dawn.
The boat alone on the sea
But the wind steady, pulling them along.