The Insomniac Thinks of God

Midwinter, after midnight:

coy-dogs shrill the bitter valley

as the owl, in moon-tones,

wonders who. Far off,

the lonely engine of a plane drones on.

It’s then I think of him

who, unlike me, is without boundaries,

who, unlike me, can hold his tongue.

He listens urgently,

whose wakeful ear outlasts the night.