Now he lays him down to bed,
the phone is off, goodnights are said,
the day is done; he does not weep
for promises he’s yet to keep.
In the morning, coffee waits,
For now, the poet masturbates
With words, he strokes himself to sleep
And bids his verse his soul to keep
And, should he die before he wake,
He prays that his cesuras
Like waves upon a beach at night,
“Relentless as the tide,” he’ll write
While knowing that it’s all in vain.
His verse is able, but he is Cain,
Doomed to fish the shoals of sleep:
His rhymes await him in the deep.
The poet sleeps, and dreams of you
Of bacon, pepper, salt, and you
Of buildings, earthquakes, fault, and you
Of flying forest clouds and you
Of madding city crowds and you
Of floating monster castle drums
And sea bird scenes where lightning comes
Behind the boom of thunder rage
And books that never turn a page
But rather make their readers turn
And fire that can never burn
And ducks and puppies, all in rows
With ribbons on their painted toes
He dreams of these and more things too
The poet sleeps and dreams of you.
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