Year of writing 113. 23/30

4/23/12

23/30

I've never slept well.
As a boy I'd wait for all
the house sounds to stop,
one by one as my family
eased themselves down.
When the last creak
of the last bedspring
and the last guttural,
rumbling throat cleared,
the dripping could be heard.

It was a slow leak in the
kitchen faucet. Barely noticeable
by day, the droplets hung suspended
almost cruelly long before
splashing down onto the stainless
steel.  I'd begin by counting.



1



2



3




4



The space in between drips
never varied, but seemed to increase
in length nonetheless. I began
to create stories in those spaces,
tales sprouting up like Oxalis in the
winter, only to be cut short by
the next drip. I never finished a story
between those liquid splashes.
I suppose if I had, sleep would
have come easy and soft.
These days in the dark, when the
breathing around me slows,
these days I sing songs of rivers
and oceans; I sing songs of deluge
and cascade.  These days there
is no space for stories.