Friday, November 20, 2009

621. SLEEP

SLEEP
When it gets this late, I just want to
go home and sleep in the rafters.
Somewhere the sun doesn't shine.
Tomorrow is morning, and I'll
have nowhere to go. I'll sit back and
remember distant places - like sins I've
never experienced - the black hides of
old Utah, a miner's sketch on a black
piece of slate. My eyelids, I can sense,
are trying to close. It's not a new sensation,
mind you, something the species has endured
for ages and more. I watch the bird nearby, on
its perch, undergoing the same treatment I'm
giving myself. Aware, but at the same time, drifting.
Eyes closing up, head nodding a bit. Only it tucks
one foot up while it sleeps - whereas I stretch out,
flat on my back, and collapse and drift away.
It's all the same in the end - in both our way.
Tomorrow is another day.

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