To Wake in the Dark and Stand in the Expanding Constant

to wake in the dark
to go outside and stand on the gravel driveway
looking up at a quarter moon     not hear birds
to climb the stairs to the kitchen
splash face with warm water
put the kettle on
open the glass patio door and let the air in
peel a grapefruit
pour boiling water over ground coffee
smell the peppery bitterness and linger over the cup
to sit in the dimness     cross-legged on the couch     sipping
to read a poem    go slow over some lines    type some words
listening for an opening     an exit     an answer
to almost hear one in the low hollow note of earth’s wood flute
to feel the deep melancholy of the predawn world
to wait for some connection     some foothold
friends you haven’t seen for an age     in whose presence
you want to say so much     mean so much
and are left mute     incarcerated by self-questioning
a condition you can write about     but not say
to eyes across a table
only adding to the loneliness that adheres
to all living things     meaning     this entire universe
that keeps searching the void     wall-less     endless cave 
stretching     seeking     expanding 
another 3000 miles by the time
you’ve read to here