Night blurs time
   its numbers groggy
   without much conviction.
You become confused and defenseless.
You crave answers
    but the puzzling dreams
you've written create quandaries.
    Your faith and confidence
struggle, groping for hooks, for handles
of identification and certainty.
    Morning brings
you out of the night so you can turn
    blank pages into poems.

    Donald Everett Axinn
    From Walking Through the Night

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