The poetry of alarm clocks is life’s urgency badly named. Alarm? As if there were not motivations of fear enough in this world. Pocket-sized machinery shreds night’s quiet blanket of dark. So many high-pitched horns wailing. As if day were a planned emergency, the body a hurtling ambulance. What if Rumi were to lean and whisper in our ears instead? ‘The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep…’
June 5, 2009
The Poetry Of 
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