The hour, as Suka might say,
If wheedling for more time, is
"Just a little." So it is:
Half past one in the morning
Of the day after the date
One hundred and forty nine
Years since Lincoln's best address.
I can't sleep. Or if I can,
It's thus I'm not doing it
Of a splintered night. The moon,
That sphere composed of impacts,
Is somewhere past the highway,
Telling me something I can't
Wait to hear. Just a little.