October 27, 2014

How do you sleep at all
when a poem learns to breathe
and begins living inside you?
(not behind the shelf
the sexton has the key to)

Why should I sleep, anyway?
I dream enough awake
and couldn't find rest
if I slept for days.
(because you'd saturate sight)

I just want to think of you
when I choose to, and love you
the way your friends do,
(without prayer,
and that pale sustenance)

but tonight I'll not sleep at all;
I'll whisper and sprawl.
Poems aren't alive, but you and I,
(with just the door ajar)
we are.