It is 1:40 am. I am unsleeping. That which is in me is crystalized, sharp and jagged. How can my skin rest on this?

The rain has its hands all over us and the dogs complain of intruders. When I allow it, they barrel out joyfully into the inclemency, untongued and seeking, while I sit with my back against the hum of the fridge and count the stars the streetlight makes through the bushes wet branches.

I am asking if this morning seat, which is so toxic to me in the in between of day and night, might show me morning kindness in the dark of unsleeping and rain shudder. Have I crossed yet into forgetting and forgiveness?

Now it is night and the rain has stopped and I have come to rest in the crook of the great unknowing.