By George Freek
THE NIGHT MUSIC (After Liu Yong) My clock ticks like an incessant toothache. Clouds soft as pillows smother the moon, as I sit beside the river. All night I hear waves beat the shore, as if it were a door they can’t open. A bird shrieks from joy or from fear. Life is often unclear. I’m nearing sixty. I still have no idea who I am, or why I’m even here.
George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.
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