Umbra

I write but don’t know where I’m going
I feel my way listening for the muttered tells

you’re in the other room still sleeping till
the sky behind the mountain glows

tick .. the clock above the sink repeats .. tick
—as many ticks as electric inner bits enable

outside shade, but in the window’s glass
the lamp above my head is glowing
—idea slung from ceiling still in morning umbra,
light whose bouncing frequencies
come caroming off a pane

many nagging memories remain
—so many I can’t write their number

Jim Culleny
1/5/20