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Or the Singer to His Song

Published: September 5, 2008
Section: Arts, Etc.


Sleep, a Painting

It is time to turn against the night
and draw the world within my palms,
to set the crutch which holds the sky
above the moon and silver beach.

My gaze is fixed upon the shore
where dense waves crash and sound no more.
There are songs unheard in the ocean’s roar,
and I have not forgot a single one.

I will stand guard along the coast
until I sleep inside my steps,
lost beneath the dreamer’s head
where sugared time becomes undone.

I have singled out the silent stars,
I have not forgot a single one;

their lights cold and far
as music is alien to the instrument
or the singer to his song.