Waxing Night
10.23.06

Lead puddles in arteries and veins,
no longer pushing you up
against the waking walls
but pulling you ever softer
with the accented air blooming lightly
on the cheek that won’t be
pillow-creased tomorrow.

If you chose, you could discover
element 147 on the periodic table
buried deep in the shattered decanter
of a burned out star, and you’d name it
“narcoleptium”, but right now you’d rather
sink slower, let those lilac-tainted lullabies
swing low and light on closed eyes, the better
to feel the notes brush away the lurking dawn,
then vaporize into the swelling night.

And you reel in the words
on a raceaway line.
“I’m not tired”, you say
“I’m not tired”