Something Poetic

This night is a quiet adventure in which, open window, crickets sing, black, black, I look for something to see. Look, the shadow of my head is on the page. Sribble, scribble. Who could fall asleep anyway with such unusual objects all about him? Pillow, wall, sheet, sheet, unusual because they are like the snores of the man who didn’t believe he snored in his sleep so who asked to be woken to hear them, but here I am awake and seeing and don’t need to sleep to catch them waking.

29 August 1979 (revised 19 September)