murakami

murakami awakens at four in the morning,
and creates the world.

murakami hums the world into existence
with fingers curled around knitting needles,
the thin wooden rods clicking against each other
in a precise rhythm
the wool, the long, thin strand of time,
rising from a tangled mound at his feet.

murakami awakens at four in the morning
and hums the song
that his clicking knitting sticks will use
to envelop distant mountains in fog,
pour a glass of whiskey,
light a fire,
close the town gates,
rage the winter night.

i wept when i learned that murakami slept
at precisely nine each night.
there was nothing else i could do.