i guess the answer has to be “yes.” because here we are, here those numbers stand, one then five then it’s leapt into six because two fives in a row gets droll after about fifty-five seconds and the only thing left begging to be done is the tapping of red circles, button-pushing, switch-flipping, and the final melt into sleep. our favorite great elsewhere. i should grab a handful of moments to thank myself for not whirrying eddies into the spring break i could castigate myself for squandering on quasi-hibernation and comparatively-listless wandering (feet through groves, eyes through pages). even if it is only a success riding on the pragmatism of every flavor of tired hopelessly backlogged. even so, even though. it withstands qualifiers’ chisel; persists as an is. till morning (however much of it i swim into the Knowing Then/Feeling Then/Doing Then for, anyway). i don’t know where any of these words came from. i dissipate. am far more gone than here.
sleep feels like nothing so much as symbiosis. but mutualism between who and who?
Physics says: go to sleep. Of course
you’re tired. Every atom in you
has been dancing the shimmy in silver shoes
nonstop from mitosis to now.
Quit tapping your feet. They’ll dance
inside themselves without you. Go to sleep.
Geology says: it will be all right. Slow inch
by inch America is giving itself
to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness
lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.
You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be
one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep.
Astronomy says: the sun will rise tomorrow,
Zoology says: on rainbow-fish and lithe gazelle,
Psychology says: but first it has to be night, so
Biology says: the body-clocks are stopped all over town
History says: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.
my sighs for rain tintinnabuli beneath the clamor. all i want to do is sleep. even storms, rampant roilers, make better bedfellows than does the sullen sun, flaring stentorian when his hours pass unheeded and homage is denied him.
the precious few dreams that cling to memory through the rickety careen from sleep to waking are, without fail, short, and devastating. just….why, self?
at least it’s not so shameful, at this time of night, to try to cup words with hands splay-fingered and to sigh as they slip, skittering them into dustmotes, too nested for pursuant stumble. right?
oh, empty. hard-won only to be unwanted. like time, i suppose. i thought it was eleven:something but the computer intones incorrect. what i need is a pair of arms hooked up to shoulders and a collarbone, heart, soul, mind, voice, warmth. what i have is a nest thrust just off the ground by four squat straining legs, heaped high with pillows and, of all things, a comforter. the irony! and sleep’s tail is lashing. he will have me soon, will i, nill i. ever indolent in his mercuriality. i crumple upon command (he the uncatchable)