A night in four acts

come to rest at the edge of the bed, see

the winding straits of Baltimore, let the cold

in through the open window, to

the bright city lights and groaning car-horn nights,

listen to its railroad symphony, screeching

and yawning out its lullaby, your arms and legs

which sprawl out like a

compass pointing to sweet, acrimonious sleep.

sleeping, imagine the window and

its flimsy, its thin-sheet mortality, so

little between you and the city and the lights,

in a sleep-walk trance, close the window,

its lullaby too loud for soft ears bred in silence,

familiar with wanting, familiar

with needing.

and in dreaming, watch

the forces of darkness which shatter

windows, watch glass turn into crystalline webs

which ache before breaking, those tendrils of darkness

which push and then expand before, 

the breaking storm, watch

glass embolden and imprint, become pockmarks to

your dreaming face, watch as

scars so long hidden come

to night.

... and sleep ....

... and sleep ....

... and sleep ....

and in waking, remember that day

is never far, that light kisses with sun-stained

lips, that mornings are reminders that God is love,

and he is risen, again.