Wednesday, December 8, 2010

for sleep

You were so close to death that you prayed
for heaven to come down:
but you wanted sleep, to be buried
under a thousand grains of sand,
quieted by the falling-away of time.
(Real irony is always clever

but seldom sweet.)
You'd never be the same,
praying that prayer
for sleep, for
endless closed eyelids;
you were really waiting for winter
to end, for the sounds
in the walls to cease.

No comments:

Post a Comment