by Ellen Peckham


Midnight. Arbitrary concept declared to be this, now.
But arriving an hour later very few miles away.
There it will also be accounted, unreasonably, precise.

For where time creeps along earth’s curve
we do not register its course.

Surely readings could be specific,
accounted in miniscule increments,
triangulated, as cell calls are; exact.

I look at a clock saying “12” and, as it is dark,
call it “midnight.” Sleepless I pretend I wait
to call you who are somewhere else.

Knowing I can’t. For where you are
there is no time at all.





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