Days
stretch on as
the halls of a mortuary
stretch,
leaving guests
and grief to
wander in to infinity

but the nights,
they seem to burn like
paper on a candle
or a devil
in the sun,
sleep and solace lost
among the cold, unruffled
bedstuffs

but,
one day
I hope to have a night
and, after
easing my days
from the stretching,
perhaps
I’ll take my night
and call it one