I don’t want to hurry.
Who would I be meeting?
The frost outside?
The sun before its first yawn?
An empty theatre
not ready for its play?
I don’t want to hurry.
A stranger with a gun?
Going to work and repetition?
Why must I hurry?
What is happening out in the world
that isn’t happening in me?
Am I not where the word begins?
Is not dawn my eyelids opening?
Did the universe stop
to let me dream?
I turn over in my bed.
I remember how to be born.
I watch the shadows of sleep
fly off to the wall.
I do not have to hurry.
I listen to the seashore
of my breathing.
I look for my lover,
somewhere else downstairs.
I count time
to the sudden burst of my heart.
God took fifteen billion years
to tuck me to sleep,
to let me wake,
and be at peace.
Why should I hurry?
I must be patient.
I must listen to the clockmaker.
Be kissed on my cheek
and turn over in my bed.
A few more minutes to be still.
To listen to God
tell me a story.
No hurry.