Midnight is the time before six hours of winter

Midnight is the time before six hours of winter

It is not
the clock greenly sighing itself through the minutes
or the refusal of the light
to spontaneously burst
into ecstatic, electric song,
or the curtains, sashaying
with unexpressed feeling.
It is not
the awareness of necessary sleep
being just beyond
fingers
too tired
to stretch for it
or the loss of self
in the dark cloud around the ceiling.
It is not
the cold touch of the dead radiator
on yesterday's washing
or the heat within my chest
or the clutched pillow
or the inner screaming.
It is not
the sounds of other breathing.
It is not
the fact it is not you.
It is not
the fact it is not you.