10.10.2003
The trucks pass loud outside my window. The night is
dark and cold air seeps through the blinds. The
last breath of wind falters, then wanes, then dies,
exhaling against the photos on my wall.
My sheets are cold and heavy on my skin.
Nothing turns out right.
Sleep escapes me and flies through your window,
shaking the rooftops and sighing out your mouth.
Your breath smells like beer and wintergreen and
Camels. Your eyes are red rimmed and open.
Here is my letter that you will never read:
Atlas, let go. It is not
only you who knows what it
feels like to have to live.
Not only you who bears these
crosses and planets alone.
Relax your shoulders, uncross your brow.
Open your eyes & I guarentee
you'll find the well you're searching for.
I raise my voice in frail supplication and the
grace of the dead covers it: And let us say, amen
amen amen.
It's time for sleep and my eyes
squint and detect the light all the way
across the bay, signaling it's time to come home.
Consciousness fades and my dream-world takes over:
the one we run in
the one I watch, terrified, at the side
the one I suffer in
the one you die in
the one in which you watch her die.
It's time for that world and it's time for
sleep so relax your shoulders and let it
slide and trust me that you'll find, in the morning,
everything's so much better if you can
just let go.
