Mind abuzz, body stiff, I take
my meds and wait for rest. For
by now the clouds have come
and gone and brought no rain,
the dishes are put away, all
juice squeezed from the day:
I am dead to the world.
Lightning strikes and I don’t
move; concussed, I hear poets
talk of banalities—taxes,
errands—beg them to recite
a verse or two. I glimpse you,
asleep, hips pressed to the bedsheet
like moonlight on fresh snow; a
warmth, like rum on the throat,
passes through me, then flutters
off, a scrap of paper bearing great
secrets—how to stay warm when
the fire goes out, why my favorite
color is whatever catches in your
eye—I once knew intimately. O,
the secrets are on the tip of my
tongue! Well into morning I
think of how much a kiss can
release, of all the knowledge that
only your waking could rouse me to.