3: 36 A.M. Poem by RIC BASTASA

just doing something
that touches
the deeper part of the
marrow of my bone


the spirit is alive
the body is weak

there are questions
popping up like
mushrooms after
a rainy night

you ponder upon each
shape and color
round and pale and
expanding
and still tough like
a question begging for
an answer

there is this emptiness
that even a poem
at dusk cannot fill

it exists and its duty
is not to disappear
it enters your heart
and makes its home there

God says
he dwells there as well