Saturday, September 01, 2007


There is a high singing in my ears;
a ticking of clocks, the spin of a fan.
I am stupid for want of rest,
unwilling, unable to sleep.

To sleep would be to admit it:
It's not going to happen, not today.
All day I have been waiting for your voice.
A wise man never waits. That's what they say.

I remember the pearl of the sun, in an ivory sky.
I remember the skin of your waist
bunching as you leaned, delighted
Over a puppy chance-met in the park.

Now far away, the rattle of the trainyards,
the half-heard concussion of containers
loaded onto frames;
I am wishing, wishing for rain.

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