Sleep Cycle

by Dean Young

We cannot push ourselves away

from this quiet, even in our sprees

of inattention, the departing passengers

stubbing out their smokes, arrivees in tears,

lots of cellophane, the rumpus over parking.

Wind scrapes leaves across the road,

first flashes of snow, it is dark then

it’s really dark. Forgive me for not

writing for so long, I’ve been

right beside you, one of the vaguer

divinities blocking your way with its need

to confess all its botched attempts at love,

what started the whole mess. I love this place,

its absurd use of balustrade, the chairs

that dig into the spine, motorcyclists

propping their drunk girlfriends in the sun,

men playing timed chess with themselves,

the guarantees and warnings that entice us

to the brink of what they warn about.

But we can do no more than pass through

these rooms and their sudden chills

where once a plea was entered almost

unintentionally that seemed at last

to reveal ourselves to ourselves,

immaculate, bereft, deserving to be found.