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Sleep
November 2003
The goddess of sleep wants more respect. Eight hours? I object. I tell her I used to get by on four. She tells me I was younger then. I tell her I don’t have time for this conversation.
November 2003October 2003
I stopped writing, but nothing else stopped. The days kept getting longer, then shorter, then longer again. The bombs fell, then stopped, then fell again.
October 2003February 2003
It’s temporary, I tell myself. Then I remember that’s true of everything: the blazing fire; our two gray cats; my lovely wife with her long graying hair. If only I never lost sight of this. If only I didn’t shut my eyes except to sleep.
February 2003Going To Bed
A late night walk on the beach, Drambuie or bourbon, the dreaded Carrot Lady
June 2001Staying Awake
A still birth, a recipe for orange duck, a young professional pianist
February 2001Midnight
The thin wall between this world and the next, midnight letters, warm milk and molasses
May 2000At My Bedroom Window
The night sky outside my window is so watery I want to backstroke into it, sink beneath its silver-flecked surface. I am sad and it is beautiful; in this, we make a good marriage. I imagine my parents up there now. Sometimes I miss them so much I’d do anything to have them back. I keep a large color photo of them on my bureau so they can watch me dress and undress every day. I no longer care if my father sees me naked.
November 1999
