Thursday, January 26, 2012


It's mostly quiet
now, although occasional
moans and wails
pitch themselves down
the darkened hall
in my distinct direction.
The blue stars have turned
off. The window is open
to the cold winter night,
to wheels passing on
wet streets, a siren.
I am awake.

How doctrinaire you have become,
everything always leaning
into your lack. If only I could
orchestrate your soft rhythms:
mollify the monsters
and magnificent tantrums,
quell the voluminous time devoted
to your ripening.
Pacify the city night, ceilings
thin as wooden drums.
Sleep! Unfurl this rewinding mind,
lull the wakeful feet of
students' feet upstairs,
cradle my coughing baby,
my panicked little boy.


Julia said...

Amber, you wrote this? This is excellent.

amber said...

Ah, yes, thank you Julia! I wrote it late at night, sleep-deprived but unable to sleep.