I’m tired of sleep—tired
of belief exceeding its cause,
of love curling in the telephone,
subtracting week from month and month from year,
bodies striating bedsheets like waves of sound.
Are you there? I couldn’t tell
you about the time I saw the deer, how their delicate faces
wavering in likeness,
they beaded free, one by one,
from pools of flickering lamplight.
I heard nothing as they passed. It was night.
Now, morning breaks like a vase
dropped from the hill, where the clock-
crystal-faced and faceted, it seems an insufficient vessel
for its sound. In the park,
the green is freshly cropped.
The wind snags on my rougher countenance.