Why do I linger on into these darkened hours?
Shades drawn, windows shuttered, animals sleep
Ceiling-borne lights shut off, lamps are favored now.
Why do I hunt and search these too-bright screens?
These curled, cream pages?
For fantasies, with which I stanch my memory's flow.
Or for knowledge with which to advise action I am too afraid to take.
Why else ask a question one already knows the answer to, if not to delay?
