Broken Sleep

Late Autumn nights are like the secure discomfort

Of the subway or the long dark of the tunnel

Or (so I imagine) the mossy grave, holding

Down the body like a trapped spark in the

Hood of a lantern; a light felt but not emitted.

And so when sleep is broken by a sudden

Cry of a child, your child, and the life in that

Cry impacts night’s dark restraining hand

It fractures spiraling out in tiny perforations that

Buckle and twinkle like a guttering star.