night listening

this hour a sweep of the brush in ink
black, and the wind-tunnel of forced air rush
the sound, and all in their beds
and I awake as usual, just unconscious of my limbs
in a hard chair, drink in

not-silence, defined by warm walls here
and the cold outside, the distance north and south
maps of the lives, you in your bed too under
colorless sheets,
unknown habits and positions, also silent

the symphony of sleepers' breath
fogs the imagined night air, behind the white noise
of the furnace running; yours too,
hushed, halted, gasped or rattling the glass with basso
snores, if I could hear them all in wave-like rhythm
on my shores
if all that presence were a blanket wrapped around me
then perhaps I'd lose myself,
and find my part

of all the exhausted topics, emptied of their worth

of all the states of being to escape the grasp of verse

of all the ways our souls must bend, or break the bones of faith

this, the wound accepted open-armed

this the grace that missed the mark, and harmed

this the shame

by no one name

is known



of all the songs a man may wake to moan



yours the name I pray and cry

yours the door I'm waiting by

mine the sin that wastes its breath

mine the verse done half to death