Later, that insult delivered unwittingly,
carelessly said, will sing in
sleep’s silence to announce its presence.
An unchanged loop on constant replay,
how long the night, with regrets
whispered in a bed of my own making.
Contrition is a moon composed of iron,
its spotlight’s intensity wasted
when barred by her curtained window.
Entangled in its phosphorescence,
having succumbed to dream,
remorse wakes me gasping for breath.
Robert Up At Dawn 